The Icy Metal Gates

Last December, I came home from practice to find my mother on the floor of the living room, hardly breathing. I dropped to her side, begging her to tell me what was wrong, and she whispered that she was having a heart attack. Upon hearing that, my actions became erratic; I was hyper-aware of my heart, of time, of the phone I could not keep still in my shaking hands as I called for help. After waiting in painful apprehension, two paramedics would walk in, put my mother on a stretcher, and carry her out. I would give them her prescription medicine and wrote down the name of the hospital she would be going to. Then, they would take her away, and I would be alone in a house of utter silence. Something about the silence allowed me to ruminate over

I head to my quarters, the dull room has 6 bunk beds with bedding neatly folded on the beds, 2 windows on either side with a view of the next bunker somewhat 6 feet away. I get a bed near a window and as I sit on my bed trying to adapt, my colleagues begin to come in. I’ve Not seen them for a month so we have a lot to talk about.

At the age of just twenty-eight years old my mother had decided to finally have the surgery she’d been waiting her entire life for. She was scheduled to have spinal correction surgery, a two part, eight hours a piece procedure where they would install screws and rods from the top of her neck to the bottom of her lower back. Which, for my younger sister and I, meant months of living with relatives and family friends while she recovered. For a pair of eight and five-year-old little girls this was a lot to digest. At such young ages neither of us fully understood what we were about to watch our mother endure, but what we did both know is that we were going to get through it together.

Having my mom work in a different town was difficult for me as a child. She always had to make sure that I was with a family member. Usually my mom chose to take me to my grandma’s house, where she had an outside playset. I loved the playset because it had swings, a sandbox, and a slide. Seeing the swing, I thought it would be a good idea to see how far I could jump off the swing. As soon as the idea popped into my head, I jumped on the swing as fast as I could. Pumping my legs as fast as they could go wasn’t easy. The next thing I’m on the ground

Waking up to the cold ceramic floor. The pain of my face after hitting the floor. I had never slept in a bed that was so high off the floor, or nearly as far from a wall. I knew today was the day I was finally going to see my mother again. I hadn’t seen her in almost a week; doesn’t seem like long but at the age of eight I needed my mom. I had been so far away from my dad and my brother for months now, but I’ve had her; it seemed like enough. Being with my grandparents, from my dad’s side of the family, after all, that has happened. We had come for only one reason; my mother’s mom was sick.

“You wrote a book?” my mom cooed, glancing at the forest green carpet of our living room in the aftermath of my first novel. Piles of unused paper, broken crayons, and a very intimidating stapler were carelessly strewn about. But cleaning the mess could wait. Being an author was an early aspiration, and I was obviously exhibiting my writing prowess. A shaky outline of the title was evidence of my meticulous handiwork, the frighteningly red chicken scratch almost romantic against its rosy construction paper backdrop. The booklet was coherent and adorably simple,

“Two years”: these were the words that left my heart excruciatingly unaffected on the lonely shore of ignorance as the souls of my family were tormented and hurled into an endless sea of melancholy. “Your grandmother’s lung function has decreased ten percent in a year; at this rate, she has two years left,” my father muttered as his face glistened with tears of despair. I didn’t think much of the inadequacy of my reaction to this devastating news as I remained impervious to the cloud of agony that set in as we plodded through the threshold of the hospital door.

I awoke to the shrill cry of my alarm clock. It’s hazy, red glowing face shining dully into my eyes, burning them ever so slightly. It was 2:37 A.M. The same time I woke up everyday. My eyes felt like they were about to roll out of their sockets and my mouth tasted like sour cream that had been left in the sun for too long, just like I woke up everyday. Except today was different. And today had to go perfectly.

When one turns the pages of a novel, are they reading printed pages or exploring the depths of expression and adventure. Growing up in a house of book worms, reading has had a big impact on my life and my learning process. Being adopted from Russia, I was blessed with the opportunity to have better education, learn to love writing, and better my reading with my families help.

My alarm went off that Sunday morning, playing that one J. Cole song that it always did, and for once, just once, only for that day, I actually didn’t hit that snooze button and woke up. From that last February since, every month, every week, every day, and every hour, I’d been patiently waiting and waiting and waiting for this very day to come- and it was finally here! I darted out of my room and dashed out to my parents’ and sister’s room and shook them awake. As they ever so slowly trudged out of bed, I was already downstairs, all ready to go. After what seemed like hours, the whole family was ready to go. We all hopped into the car drove out to this place near mosque where the ski bus picked us all up. As we rolled into the

We have thousands of memories, with new ones being created every minute. As I tried to think of a memory to write about, my mind became as blank as an untouched sheet of paper. I spent a number of days reflecting on the past 15 years of my life, and I still failed to recall a single event worthy of writing down. After looking through various photo albums, I realized that over half of my life has yet be lived. Then a more somber thought crossed my mind, no one is guaranteed a tomorrow. Today could very well be my 99%. Instead of frightening myself with my own thoughts any longer, I asked for my mother’s opinion. She gave me a response that I hadn’t thought of.

Without warning, I heard the sound of something shattering and looked up to see my sister with a sheepish grin on her face. Her friends startled for a moment and froze with blank expressions. And then realizing the damage that had been done, they scurried out of the kitchen. My sister had hurled her arm in the direction of the coffee maker, setting it off balance. She managed to catch the coffee maker, but not the sugar jar. The sugar jar met the old oak floor with immense force and a thunderous crack. The beloved china sugar jar that belonged to my mother lay in pieces all over the floor. Hearing the sound, my mother yelled from upstairs, “What did you break?” Fearing my mother’s wrath, my sister frantically began to pick up the larger pieces in order to throw them out but failed to remember to put shoes on to protect her feet. Scrambling, flustered, my sister’s foot came down hard on a fragment of the jar. Realizing what had happened, she hobbled silently to the bathroom leaving a

I stand up and walk over to the door. It’s unlocked. Mildly surprised I step away, scared of what might await me on the other side. I wait a few seconds. After a few seconds, turn into minutes, I realize that I can no longer stand this room. The odd feeling is so overwhelming it’s almost sickening.

I was no older than four when I got a taste of what physical activity could do to you if you weren’t careful. I was running from my mother around a Glass table that happened to be as tall as a 4 year old me. I wasn’t running because I was in trouble but because of the innocent threats my mother made when she would attempt to steal the bag of Cheetos from me. “Give me those Cheetos boo bah” mother would say in between chuckles as she chased me around the table. My grandmother sat and watched as we ran seemingly endless circles around the Glass table. It was a Sunday and we had just gotten back from church I had fell asleep as usual but my reward for going was a bag of Cheetos. The sun was particularly bright as it shone in through the window and hit the edges of the glass table making it appear as if it was made from the newest materials. My mother was beginning to get tired of our endless game and started playing around the edges of the illuminated table in an attempt to corner me. “Be careful Tahnee that boy is going to hurt himself playing around that table” my grandmother said with a sternly warned. My mother stopped, looked over to my grandmother, and said “we’ll be fine ma”. As I came wrapping around one of the corners with the cheesy snack I slipped and from there I would awake in the hospital.

I opened my eyes after a long, energizing slumber. At first, I dreaded the upcoming school day, but I soon realized that it was Saturday. The scent of pancakes and bacon was wafting up the stairs, my family’s normal Saturday routine. I climbed out of bed and got dressed in preparation for visiting my grandmother, another weekend tradition. I stumbled quickly down the stairs, shoveled pancakes and bacon into my mouth, and ran upstairs to apply my heavy coat of teenage make-up. I turned my head and looked at the clock; the minute hand was reaching towards the bottom, no, that wasn’t right. It was only ten, I was going to Saturday Morning Bingo at ten thirty with my grandmother at the nursing home. Then I remembered: my grandmother had left that morning on a cruise around Canada and Alaska.