The Life Of My Life

My sisters and I all squished together on the small couch. So finally after what felt like twenty years, mom and dad said “We’re moving”. My stomach dropped. I loved this house, it was the only house I could remember living in, it was home. ”Where are we moving to?” I managed to say, hoping it would be across the street or something close. “Georgia!” she said with a soothing smile and hope and excitement in her eyes. Of course I didn’t want to move, especially out of state, my nine year old self was devastated, and before I knew it boxes were

Silence. It was too quiet for a Manhattan neighborhood. My eyes slowly opened, welcoming sunlight in, as I looked around my room, I strained my ears to catch for any sounds. I decided to get up and figure out why our usually bustling neighborhood went from noisy to quiet. Walking down the stairs, I was welcomed to a totally destroyed living area, all my furniture against the door, all my windows boarded up with multiple nails pierced into the board. Creeping towards my kitchen, all my belonging looked as though it had not been touched. Opening the oak cabinets, I noticed all my food was in place, including my box of chocolate granola bars, with four left. Grabbing one, I leaned against the counter, my eyes glancing towards the daily newspaper crumpled on the floor. Bending down

Since my father stormed out, I was now alone in my room. My room wasn’t the same anymore. The light blue walls seemed like prison bars, trapping me inside a house that was not a home. My father’s words still rang in my head; dirty, stupid, slut, piece of—ding. I looked down at my phone. Four missed calls from Charlie Murphy. I let out a sigh of relief and

Speeding around the corner, I see the dilapidated house has taken one more step toward total ruin, the cemetery has a few new headstones, and Mamaw’s house looks exactly the same. The single story white brick house sits alone on the right side of Miller Road and the yard is alive with flowers, trees, and invisible-from-a-distance fire ant-piles. I pull in the driveway and park to the side of the house under the shade of the massive pecan tree. The crunch of squirrel-cracked shells sounds beneath my feet. I smile at the familiarity of it all as the storm door thunks shut behind me. My nose is assaulted by the smell of fresh biscuits and starched laundry. Bright light floods into the empty family room from the porch, and I know I am home.

It was the end of second grade when we moved into my parent’s home, although whenever I return it still feels like walking in after a long day of Mr. Minchak’s class. The stain on the TV room carpet still smells of orange juice, but the house and I are the only ones that know about its’ existence, like it’s our little secret. The house whispers memories of emotional detachment, it never raises its’ voice. Twelve years later, past thoughts are still there, but the feeling of home has never existed in that space; my parent’s home was never my home to be begin with.

"Emery, go with grandma to the kitchen, she baked some cookies for you," I whisper, glancing down at her with a grin. The skittering of my daughter's shoes on the wooden floor mask her squeals of excitement. The worn, familiar couch moans as I collapse onto it, taking in the entirety of the house; it hasn't changed much at all since I moved out. The overwhelming joy I felt when moving here is something that I remember vividly. My dad got a major promotion, allowing us to move into the house we had always dreamed of living in. The confinement of our old two bedroom apartment had come to an end, and I was ecstatic. Of course, my own future was rapidly approaching, and with that came the fear of failure. This fear resonated particularly strong

Landing abruptly back on the shore of reality, I walked into my home, making a special effort to protect Yarr from the danger lurking inside. Mountains of clutter accompanied the cold temperature our ramshackle heater could never compete against. Cold would be a fitting adjective to describe how I remember my former home. There were no loving calls of dinner being ready sitting on a mahogany table filled with people who loved each other. No questions concerning how one’s day went or what stories they’d love to share. Instead, I witnessed shattered glass, I heard screaming and cursing.

I was born in a remote village, never felt discriminated while raising in the Gurung family one of the indigenous communities of Nepal until I was in the school. After my School Leaving Certificate (SLC), my father decided to send me to the city for my higher education I was at the age of 16 When I left home for the first time. I started my Intermediate Level Education at Ratna Rajya Laxmi Campus. I still remember when my father went to Kathmandu or Dharan for any purpose; he used to bring the bundle copies, pens, geometry box, calculator and other stationery items for his children. He always encouraged all of us to study hard. treated equally to all 5 daughters and my brother regarding education. When I joined my college, I started working in a boarding school as a primary teacher, then I did my education and work in parallel. My elder sister and I were living in uncle's house in Kathmandu. My sister cooked for me, so I didn’t have to cook. One day, when she came late from campus, I had to stay empty stomach because I didn’t know how to make food. I had never experienced cooking because I was too little and I was not able to make food for our big family, and my mother didn’t allow me to do that. I usually worked outer sphere of the job such as cutting grass, collecting woods from the jungle and playing with the boys but, my father never interrupted me to do all those. I loved and enjoyed doing that outer sphere jobs.

When I was younger, things were so simple. I was getting good grades, winning spelling bees, and even making honor roll. Everything started going downhill when my parents seperated. As I got older things became more difficult. My teenage years were some of the hardest times of my life.

People never realize how special things are until they are gone. My grand aunt, Aunt Mim, used to always give us 5 dollar bills with a little red heart in the corner for our birthdays. Of course, us children didn’t think much of it, we would spend it right away for a new toy or a bag of candy. We were all very close to our Aunt Mim when we were kids, we’d spend a week in the summer with her, all of our cousins too. Aunt Mim wasn’t like an ordinary adult, she was fun and loved to break the rules. We would roll down all the hills we saw when we were out, ignoring all the people staring. But as we grew older, Aunt Mim was diagnosed with breast cancer and was soon admitted into the hospital.

After my wife passed away, I didn’t think there was much more meaning in my life. I knew eventually everybody passed from old age and I didn’t have much time left in my own life but I had hoped that what little I did have I could spend with my beloved wife, Ruth. We had been married 52 years before the angel of death came and took away my light in the middle of the night. At least she had passed silently and painlessly.

I was eight years old, all I could think about was my family. How was I gonna go to school? Would I lose my friends? Would I ever see my brother again? I would write about my family breaking up. My writing was on a piece of printer paper with pens, (I wasn’t allowed to have markers at my mom’s house). She wasn’t home much so I would write about the boys she brought home. How some of them had tattoos and some of them had cool, funky hair.

My life has been the same for three years. Yes that's right three years. Ever since my dad has left life geot me and my mom pretty good. My Dad left me and my Mom when I was five so I really have no memory of him at all. Then when I was eleven the worst thing happened. My mom got super sick. At that time life got pretty hard. My mom had a hard time keeping up with her job and eventually her house payments. When I was thirteen my Mom was permanently moved into a hospital my mom had assistance by nurses until I was seventeen. The doctors still couldn't figure out what was wrong with my mom so they sent us home and told us that eventually my mom would die. I've been my mom's personal assistant and nurse know for over a year and I knew what needed to happen. I decided for my mom’s sake and mine to move to Ccleveland, Ohio and leave our little city in India behind in hopes to find out what's wrong with my mom. I wish my life was easier.. I wish I had a more normal life but no I’m lLike a nurse that doesn't get paid. I wish I had more freedom.

In life, we all face The Good The Bad and The Ugly. Some let the bad control them, some let the good control them, and others let the ugly get the best of them. It's how we view life that can help us determine how we live our life. The highest point in my life was when I had my sweet sixteen.

I stared down at my city because I wanted it to be the last thing I ever saw. The dim, flickering streetlights, the occasional flashing headlight of a vehicle and the peaceful resplendence of a neighbourhood in the middle of the night almost made my heart ache. But there was no turning back. The big clock in the middle of the city showed half an hour to midnight.