Summary : ' The Curtain Curtains '

As soon as my eyes woke up to the bitter cold of the night and stars covered by black blanket of clouds, I knew that this was it. I had tried to prepare myself that day, but I was at school when it happened. The moment the intercom came over the classroom, “Hailey Wooldridge needs to come the office, her mom is here to check her out,” my heart stopped. I was able to make it to the office without losing my composure, but as soon as my eyes met my mom standing there with tears in hers I lost it. Right there standing in the school office, the food gates of heaven opened up in my eyes and I could not stop the rivers from flowing. My best friend since kindergarten had died. All the planning of moving in together when we went to college was down the drain. The late nights of watching horribly filmed scary movies was done. My heart was broken, and the pieces are still not taped together properly. Two days later was her funeral. Her mother had asked me to say a couple of words about her during the service, but the thought of standing next to her lifeless body talking about her and not to her made everything seem surreal. By the power of prayer and numerous amounts of tears, I stood up from my seat and walked lifelessly to the podium that viewed hundreds of people waiting to see what I had to say. I do not know how I got through that speech without hysterically crying, but somehow, I talked like I was having a conversation with Serra once again. In front of me, I

It felt a little like I was back outside again, my lava tears streaking down my cheeks, making my tear ducts sting. The room closed in on me and my eyes scanned the space from left to right, spinning and dancing across my mother’s concerned look. I can’t say I was angry, that I felt some predictable rage or crippling sadness. I just felt numb, untouched and untouchable. It was as if I was floating in the air, accompanied by the words my father just spoke, chasing each other around in some chaotic tornado, and yet everything around me was still. There was no feeling really, just reaching and grasping for something to be different, failing to comprehend.

The stench of death hit my nostrils as I opened the door to go inside, which is why I always hated going to the hospital. We waited the fifteen minute queue, until I heard my name from a nurse. I followed the nurse into a small, beige room. I sat down on the examining table, as my doctor walked in. I told him my symptoms, and he did a quick check up. His cold fingers pressed against my lower back. “Breathe in and out.” He said. I did as told. “Slower.” he exclaimed. At that moment, while I was slowly breathing in and out, I could hear a small click every time I inhaled. The doctor looked up and said, “Ahhh, you seem to have pneumonia.” He explained to my mom and I what that meant because we were clueless. After he finished, he told us that if I waited any longer to go to the hospital, he wouldn’t be speaking to me, which opened my mom’s eyes finally. He told me that I couldn’t go to school for at least another two weeks, gave me a school note and my prescription. We left the hospital. My mom dropped me off, and went to pick up the medication. As I lay in bed, I remember thinking about everything that has happened to me in the past two days, and what the doctor told me. Those thoughts were interrupted by the opening of my bedroom door as my mom walked in. She handed me the medication. I swallowed the pills, and fell asleep. The next morning my mom walks in with a stack of papers. She said, “It’s alright if you’re not able to attend class,

At this point, the first guest speaker went up to the stage. He started after a long pause. As he told everyone his experience as a father, I could feel his heart ache and yearn for his late daughter. As several guest speakers poured their feelings and sentiments into their tragic stories with tears intertwined. They cried out their anguish without feeling alone, but a deeper connection to their body, baby and the universe. It was the pain of losing not only their child, but a part that attached them. The disappointment, the longing, the despair is

Staring down at the baby; my baby in his little plastic box, I was overcome by a fear I had never felt before. I would later find out that his box was called and isolate, a special bed for premature babies. His eyes were covered with gauze, he had a tube in his nose that was assisting his breathing, and he was so small. Awestruck, I watched his slight movements. His mouth moved as if he was searching for something. His tiny hands grasped for something to hold on to. I slowly reached my finger to his hand and he clutched it with all of his little might. His grasp sent shock waves of love through my body that I had never experienced in my life. I was a mother.

I vividly remember that chilly night in March as I walked out of Fifer, the building my father now calls home, for the first time. I had goosebumps, but they were not from the cold I felt hit my skin. Instead, they were from the sickness in my stomach. As I got in the car, I began to cry and had to stop myself from running back inside. My entire world had turned upside-down. How could I go home without my father? How could I leave him in a nursing home, a place where he was too young and mentally fit to be confined? I had to fight the feeling that he didn’t belong. I had to remind myself of why he chose to be there, and I hated it.

“Hello, HELLO!” I remember when I was 8 years young and I had just come home from a long day of what I had believed to be rigorous work. I had hoped upon my arrival there would be someone I would be able to speak to about my day. I had not heard a sound besides the gust of wind which slammed the door shut behind me “Whoosh Bang”. With no one in sight, I had bursted into tears with the absence of the sign of life. My parents had divorced when I was 7 years old which truly affected my life. As a child I remember sunday breakfast with my family and many activities and trips taken as a

A single beam of light shone thru the curtain. The specs of dust in the room danced between the rays, whisked into the air by the pleasant breeze tip toeing thru the screen door. I could feel the warmth on my cheek as I rose from the sheets, thoroughly rested. I briskly got ready, slipping on my tennis shoes, old and worn. Stepping outside, I was greeted by the painfully sweet aroma of sweet pea flowers, entranced by the blissful gleams of sunlight, and spellbound by the familiar screeching of parrots, flocking in clouds of bright vermilion.

My hospital bed was ice cold and the bleak and empty white walls depressed me as the uncomforting thought that I would have to stay here for maybe another week brought tears to my eyes. The usual and oppressive smell of disinfectant lingered in the room as I recalled that night in my head, trying to convince myself it wasn’t my fault, as I had done everyday since the accident. It was the day everything changed and my life was turned upside down. Forever.

As I walked downstairs I could smell the aroma of eggs, bacon, and toast drifting up the hall. The sound of the bacon sizzling and the dishes being moved around gave me a warm, toasty feeling that calmed my nerves and made me relax. As I sat down at the island in the center of the kitchen, my mom served my breakfast to me.

In “Stain”, Naomi Shihab Nye uses simple and straightforward symbolism and a paradox to help the reader comprehend her home and the Middle East as a whole is not as bad as people think, in the wake of September 11, 2001. Naomi Shihab Nye enforces the use of symbolism in simple, everyday objects to assist the reader comprehend the difference in time before and after the events on september 11, 2001. She writes about a memory of her grandmother and how peaceful the time was,and then compares it to the effects 9/11 had on her home. “She stood outside by the lemon tree.

So I laughed when the villagers insulted Amihan for giving up on life, when everyone told us we were ungrateful to Mama for her ‘hard work’ in supporting our family. I smiled when I was asked how I was coping. And I smiled as they lowered her into the ground. I smiled and laughed through it all--just like Amihan taught me. But I was still filled with so much sadness it felt as if birds and bees were crashing against my body, but I couldn't feel anything. I was transparent; a glass pane that living things kept crashing into, believing that behind the wall, there was a human being.

I went to the appointment on that Monday, and being a bigger hospital, I was even more terrified. We checked in, and luckily found a spot to sit in one of the waiting room. The room wasn’t filled with sadness or negativity, it was somehow filled with laughter. There were many children, therefore some of the parents had brought coloring book for them. I just wanted to know what these children were at the hospital for. They seemed to be the most charming children ever, and I just couldn’t understand why whatever they're going through was happening to them. My parents had left to buy coffee,

Not far from the Plaid Curtain, at around three or four in the morning, on the 9th of July, Chandler the Fair and his section were approaching the last known coordinates of the Jericho Series plane that disappeared five months ago. Although it was almost a full moon at the time, some of them wielded flashlights, hoping that they could be able to see in those low light situations.

I watched as my family said goodbye as a I lay in my hospital bed, breathing raspily. I told them that I loved them. I tried to reach out for my mother’s hand, but was stopped by the short slack of all the tubes and wires connected to me. She comes closer so she can hold my hand, so she can comfort me in my last moments.