The boy stepped forward, unable to comprehend with his five-year-old mentality. He reached his hand out to touch the cold metal, before it was lowered into the snow-covered terrain. The preacher looks down sympathetically towards the poor youngster.
His mother softly kisses the coffin, and steps back as a tear gently runs down her face. She glanced around out of habit, trying to find her usual shoulder to cry on. He wasn’t there. The violence in Iraq had taken a husband, a father, and an amazing man.
The car ride home was filled with silence, and heavy with thought. Memories of (the mother)’s husband and (the son) making snowmen while decorating the house for Christmas ran through her head. It was then that it truly hit her that her husband was truly gone and was not coming back. That her son’s loving father was not going to be there to watch him stumble down the steps on Christmas morning, and watch his eyes light up as he sees all the gifts (which might now be fewer with less income in the house). She thought her sweet child deserved better than that.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Sunday, October 26, 2008
WA2 - FINAL
Mr. Almstedt stood up abruptly, catching everyone's attention as he slammed his ruler on the board pointing towards the different countries he was speaking of. "Here's a way to catch their attention." Almstedt thought to himself.
Jesse sat the back of the class, listing out his homework assignments for the night, counting them off on each finger. His teacher, Mr. Almstedt, was rambling on, blissfully unaware (so he thought) of the lack of interest the class shared in World History. Jesse knew he should be paying attention, because his low C in the class just wouldn’t cut it. But he just couldn’t keep his focus on the usual rubbish coming from his teacher’s mouth. Who cared about history anyway? He tried to concentrate, but instead he could feel himself slowly drifting away…
He thought back to a memory of him trick-or-treating on Halloween. He was dressed as a giant pumpkin, and he was only five. The cold air nipped at his cheeks, making them ache. He and his mother walked up house after house just to hear the sounds of the assortments of candies hitting the bottom of his fluorescent orange pumpkin basket. They had been walking for so long, his feet had started to swell and ache. And then they got there, to the house that little Jesse had dreaded most. It stood tall, with at least three stories. Jesse waited for the lightning to strike just above the house, just like he had seen in all of his cartoons. They creaked open the cold black iron gate, and slowly approached the house. “Mom…” little Jesse started. “You will be fine,” His mother assured. “Nothing will hurt you, I promise! Just go up to the door, ring the doorbell, and then wait for them to come out.” She smiled at him. Jesse uneasily walked up towards the door. He looked back, and his mother waved her hand to tell him to keep going. He turns around and focuses on the porch light ahead. He notices the wicker furniture sitting beside the door. “I can do this, I can do this.” he whispers to himself, conjuring up enough confidence to take the first step onto the porch. He looks up at the ceiling of the porch, ensuring nothing will pop out at him at the last minute. He slowly reaches for the tiny circular doorbell. He hovered his petite fingers over it for a few seconds, until he feels the smooth texture of the button. He wondered how he could be so afraid to press something smaller than his very own hand. His nerves prevented him from pressing it right away. He gathered his courage, and slowly pushed his hand to ring-
“Jesse! Do you know the answer?!” Mr. Almstedt howled. Jesse jumped, now fully awake from his daydream.“No sir. Sorry.” Jesse stated, irritated that he allowed himself to drift off in class again.“Then maybe you should start paying more attention during my class.” said the obviously dissatisfied teacher.But Jesse couldn’t help it. He just could not stand this class. It wasn’t Mr. Almstedt’s fault of course; he had just never understood history. He didn’t understand its significance. It was a giant pain in his neck. He looked down at his history book, trying to read the words that were on it.
Jesse sat the back of the class, listing out his homework assignments for the night, counting them off on each finger. His teacher, Mr. Almstedt, was rambling on, blissfully unaware (so he thought) of the lack of interest the class shared in World History. Jesse knew he should be paying attention, because his low C in the class just wouldn’t cut it. But he just couldn’t keep his focus on the usual rubbish coming from his teacher’s mouth. Who cared about history anyway? He tried to concentrate, but instead he could feel himself slowly drifting away…
He thought back to a memory of him trick-or-treating on Halloween. He was dressed as a giant pumpkin, and he was only five. The cold air nipped at his cheeks, making them ache. He and his mother walked up house after house just to hear the sounds of the assortments of candies hitting the bottom of his fluorescent orange pumpkin basket. They had been walking for so long, his feet had started to swell and ache. And then they got there, to the house that little Jesse had dreaded most. It stood tall, with at least three stories. Jesse waited for the lightning to strike just above the house, just like he had seen in all of his cartoons. They creaked open the cold black iron gate, and slowly approached the house. “Mom…” little Jesse started. “You will be fine,” His mother assured. “Nothing will hurt you, I promise! Just go up to the door, ring the doorbell, and then wait for them to come out.” She smiled at him. Jesse uneasily walked up towards the door. He looked back, and his mother waved her hand to tell him to keep going. He turns around and focuses on the porch light ahead. He notices the wicker furniture sitting beside the door. “I can do this, I can do this.” he whispers to himself, conjuring up enough confidence to take the first step onto the porch. He looks up at the ceiling of the porch, ensuring nothing will pop out at him at the last minute. He slowly reaches for the tiny circular doorbell. He hovered his petite fingers over it for a few seconds, until he feels the smooth texture of the button. He wondered how he could be so afraid to press something smaller than his very own hand. His nerves prevented him from pressing it right away. He gathered his courage, and slowly pushed his hand to ring-
“Jesse! Do you know the answer?!” Mr. Almstedt howled. Jesse jumped, now fully awake from his daydream.“No sir. Sorry.” Jesse stated, irritated that he allowed himself to drift off in class again.“Then maybe you should start paying more attention during my class.” said the obviously dissatisfied teacher.But Jesse couldn’t help it. He just could not stand this class. It wasn’t Mr. Almstedt’s fault of course; he had just never understood history. He didn’t understand its significance. It was a giant pain in his neck. He looked down at his history book, trying to read the words that were on it.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
WA2 - SECOND
Mr. Almstedt stood up abruptly, catching everyone's attention as he slammed his ruler on the board pointing towards the different countries he was speaking of. "Here's a way to catch their attention." Almstedt thought to himself.
Jesse sat the back of the class, listing out his homework assignments for the night, counting them off on each finger. His teacher, Mr. Almstedt, was rambling on, blissfully unaware (so he thought) of the lack of interest the class shared in World History. Jesse knew he should be paying attention, because his low C in the class just wouldn’t cut it. But he just couldn’t keep his focus on the usual rubbish coming from his teacher’s mouth. Who cared about history anyway? He tried to concentrate, but instead he could feel himself slowly drifting away…
He thought back to a memory of him trick-or-treating on Halloween. He was dressed as a giant pumpkin, and he was only five. The cold air nipped at his cheeks, making them ache. He and his mother walked up house after house just to hear the sounds of the assortments of candies hitting the bottom of his fluorescent orange pumpkin basket. And then they got there, to the house that little Jesse had dreaded most. They creaked open the iron gate, and slowly approached the house.“Mom…” little Jesse started.“You will be fine,” His mother assured. “Nothing will hurt you, I promise! Just go up to the door, ring the doorbell, and then wait for them to come out.” She smiled at him. Jesse slowly walked up towards the door. He looks back, and his mom waves her hand to tell him to keep going. He turns around and focuses on the porch light ahead. He notices the wicker furniture sitting beside the door. “I can do this, I can do this.” he whispers to himself, conjuring up enough confidence to take the first step onto the porch. He looks up at the ceiling of the porch, ensuring nothing will pop out at him at the last minute. He slowly reaches for the tiny circular doorbell. He hovered his petite fingers over it for a few seconds, until he feels the smooth texture of the button. He wondered how he could be so afraid to press something smaller than his very own hand. His nerves prevented him from pressing it right away. He gathered his courage, and slowly pushed his hand to ring-
“Jesse! Do you know the answer?!” Mr. Almstedt howled. Jesse jumped, now fully awake from his daydream.“No sir. Sorry.” Jesse stated, irritated that he allowed himself to drift off in class again.“Then maybe you should start paying more attention during my class.” said the obviously dissatisfied teacher.But Jesse couldn’t help it. He just could not stand this class. It wasn’t Mr. Almstedt’s fault of course; he had just never understood history. He didn’t understand its significance. It was a giant pain in his neck. He looked down at his history book, trying to read the words that were on it.
Jesse sat the back of the class, listing out his homework assignments for the night, counting them off on each finger. His teacher, Mr. Almstedt, was rambling on, blissfully unaware (so he thought) of the lack of interest the class shared in World History. Jesse knew he should be paying attention, because his low C in the class just wouldn’t cut it. But he just couldn’t keep his focus on the usual rubbish coming from his teacher’s mouth. Who cared about history anyway? He tried to concentrate, but instead he could feel himself slowly drifting away…
He thought back to a memory of him trick-or-treating on Halloween. He was dressed as a giant pumpkin, and he was only five. The cold air nipped at his cheeks, making them ache. He and his mother walked up house after house just to hear the sounds of the assortments of candies hitting the bottom of his fluorescent orange pumpkin basket. And then they got there, to the house that little Jesse had dreaded most. They creaked open the iron gate, and slowly approached the house.“Mom…” little Jesse started.“You will be fine,” His mother assured. “Nothing will hurt you, I promise! Just go up to the door, ring the doorbell, and then wait for them to come out.” She smiled at him. Jesse slowly walked up towards the door. He looks back, and his mom waves her hand to tell him to keep going. He turns around and focuses on the porch light ahead. He notices the wicker furniture sitting beside the door. “I can do this, I can do this.” he whispers to himself, conjuring up enough confidence to take the first step onto the porch. He looks up at the ceiling of the porch, ensuring nothing will pop out at him at the last minute. He slowly reaches for the tiny circular doorbell. He hovered his petite fingers over it for a few seconds, until he feels the smooth texture of the button. He wondered how he could be so afraid to press something smaller than his very own hand. His nerves prevented him from pressing it right away. He gathered his courage, and slowly pushed his hand to ring-
“Jesse! Do you know the answer?!” Mr. Almstedt howled. Jesse jumped, now fully awake from his daydream.“No sir. Sorry.” Jesse stated, irritated that he allowed himself to drift off in class again.“Then maybe you should start paying more attention during my class.” said the obviously dissatisfied teacher.But Jesse couldn’t help it. He just could not stand this class. It wasn’t Mr. Almstedt’s fault of course; he had just never understood history. He didn’t understand its significance. It was a giant pain in his neck. He looked down at his history book, trying to read the words that were on it.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
WA2 -FIRST
Jesse sat in class, listing out his homework assignments for the night, counting off on each finger. His teacher, Mr. Bob, was rambling on, blissfully unaware of the lack of interest the class shared in World History. Jesse knew he should be paying attention, because of his low C in the class just wouldn’t cut it. But he just couldn’t keep his focus on the usual rubbish coming from his teacher’s mouth. Who cared about history anyway? He tried to concentrate, but instead he could feel himself slowly drifting away…
He thought back to the memory of him trick-or-treating on Halloween. He was dressed as a giant pumpkin, and he was only five. The cold air nipped at his cheeks, making them ache. He and his mother walked up house after house just to hear the sounds of the assortments of candies hitting the bottom of his fluorescent orange pumpkin basket. And then they got there, to the house that little Jesse had dreaded most. They creaked open the iron gate, and slowly approached the house.
“Mom…” little Jesse started.
“You will be fine,” His mother assured. “Nothing will hurt you, I promise! Just go up to the door, ring the doorbell, and then wait for them to come out.” She smiled at him.
Jesse slowly walked up towards the door. He looks back, and his mom waves her hand to tell him to keep going. He turns around and focuses on the porch light ahead. He notices the wicker furniture sitting beside the door. I can do this, I can do this. He whispers to himself, conjuring up enough confidence to take the first step onto the porch. He looks up at the ceiling of the porch, ensuring nothing will pop out at him at the last minute. He slowly reaches for the tiny circular doorbell. He hovered his petite fingers over it for a few seconds, until he feels the smooth texture of the button. He wondered how he could be so afraid to press something smaller than his very own hand. His nerves prevented him from pressing it right away. He gathered his courage, and slowly pushed his hand to ring-
“Jesse! Do you know the answer?!” Mr. Bob howled. Jesse jumped, now fully awake from his daydream.
“No sir. Sorry.” Jesse stated, irritated that he allowed himself to drift off in class again.
“Then maybe you should start paying more attention during my class.” said the obviously dissatisfied teacher.
He thought back to the memory of him trick-or-treating on Halloween. He was dressed as a giant pumpkin, and he was only five. The cold air nipped at his cheeks, making them ache. He and his mother walked up house after house just to hear the sounds of the assortments of candies hitting the bottom of his fluorescent orange pumpkin basket. And then they got there, to the house that little Jesse had dreaded most. They creaked open the iron gate, and slowly approached the house.
“Mom…” little Jesse started.
“You will be fine,” His mother assured. “Nothing will hurt you, I promise! Just go up to the door, ring the doorbell, and then wait for them to come out.” She smiled at him.
Jesse slowly walked up towards the door. He looks back, and his mom waves her hand to tell him to keep going. He turns around and focuses on the porch light ahead. He notices the wicker furniture sitting beside the door. I can do this, I can do this. He whispers to himself, conjuring up enough confidence to take the first step onto the porch. He looks up at the ceiling of the porch, ensuring nothing will pop out at him at the last minute. He slowly reaches for the tiny circular doorbell. He hovered his petite fingers over it for a few seconds, until he feels the smooth texture of the button. He wondered how he could be so afraid to press something smaller than his very own hand. His nerves prevented him from pressing it right away. He gathered his courage, and slowly pushed his hand to ring-
“Jesse! Do you know the answer?!” Mr. Bob howled. Jesse jumped, now fully awake from his daydream.
“No sir. Sorry.” Jesse stated, irritated that he allowed himself to drift off in class again.
“Then maybe you should start paying more attention during my class.” said the obviously dissatisfied teacher.
But Jesse couldn’t help it. He just could not stand this class. It wasn’t Mr. Bob’s fault of course; he had just never understood history. He didn’t understand its significance. It was a giant pain in his neck. He looked down at his history book, trying to read the words that were on it.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
WA-1 - 2nd
I watched as my grandmother gently wiped the remaining blood from her chin. My great aunt, Pat had fallen last night, trying to get from her bed to her bathroom.
“You know better.” My grandmother said, “You can’t do that anymore without someone here to help you.”
I watched her eyes, full of hope, thinking that one day, somehow, Pat would be back to her normal self. After the first stroke caused her to be partially paralyzed, my grandmother had taken care of her baby sister. And Pat wasn’t the only one that was affected by the stroke. My grandmother stayed up every hour, her mind racing too fast to even consider falling asleep.
“Now you be careful next time, and press that button right here,” she said gesturing towards the nurse’s button, “and someone will be in here very quickly.”
Over these past couple of years, Pat had started as such a jolly person. Always telling jokes, and making sarcastic remarks. Then she had her first episode, and she didn’t have the mind to be such the joyful woman that she once was. Her health wouldn’t permit it. We would take her to our home every weekend, to prevent us from having to make numerous trips to Culpepper. In my opinion, it only made things harder. But in my ten-year-old mind, all of this was just making things harder. I didn’t understand why she got all of the attention, and I was mad at her for causing my family so much pain. Looking back, I feel sorry for my immaturity about the whole heartbreaking experience.
Late at night, we received a phone call from the doctor. He said that Pat had just another stroke and her kidney was failing. She only had about a week to live. We all got up the next morning, and took shifts sitting by her bed, watching her body and mind just drift away. She was noticeably unhealthy, and obviously ready to go. She had been through so much in her life: all the pains of dialysis, the suffering of not seeing her family, and the claustrophobic feelings of being stuck within that nursing home. We had all tried to help as much as we could, but it just wasn’t enough.
She slept most of that week, occasionally looking up at the concerned people surrounding her. I don’t think she really knew who we were. She was gone, regardless as to whether her heart was still beating and her mind still racing. Pat was gone. It was now just a person lying there. My grandmother watched, as her baby sister, childhood secret keeper, and best friend, sat in pain. It hurt for her to live, and it pained us to know she was going to die. I looked over at my grandmother, who now looked particularly different. That tiny glimmer of hope in her eyes had now been shattered.
God had taken her health, and now he was taking her away. That’s how it seemed at the time. Now, looking back, I know it was a blessing. She simply moved on where she could be happy, and it would be selfish to look at it as anything else. Sure it’s okay to miss her, who wouldn’t? It wasn’t anything we could do anymore aside from letting go. And we did.
“You know better.” My grandmother said, “You can’t do that anymore without someone here to help you.”
I watched her eyes, full of hope, thinking that one day, somehow, Pat would be back to her normal self. After the first stroke caused her to be partially paralyzed, my grandmother had taken care of her baby sister. And Pat wasn’t the only one that was affected by the stroke. My grandmother stayed up every hour, her mind racing too fast to even consider falling asleep.
“Now you be careful next time, and press that button right here,” she said gesturing towards the nurse’s button, “and someone will be in here very quickly.”
Over these past couple of years, Pat had started as such a jolly person. Always telling jokes, and making sarcastic remarks. Then she had her first episode, and she didn’t have the mind to be such the joyful woman that she once was. Her health wouldn’t permit it. We would take her to our home every weekend, to prevent us from having to make numerous trips to Culpepper. In my opinion, it only made things harder. But in my ten-year-old mind, all of this was just making things harder. I didn’t understand why she got all of the attention, and I was mad at her for causing my family so much pain. Looking back, I feel sorry for my immaturity about the whole heartbreaking experience.
Late at night, we received a phone call from the doctor. He said that Pat had just another stroke and her kidney was failing. She only had about a week to live. We all got up the next morning, and took shifts sitting by her bed, watching her body and mind just drift away. She was noticeably unhealthy, and obviously ready to go. She had been through so much in her life: all the pains of dialysis, the suffering of not seeing her family, and the claustrophobic feelings of being stuck within that nursing home. We had all tried to help as much as we could, but it just wasn’t enough.
She slept most of that week, occasionally looking up at the concerned people surrounding her. I don’t think she really knew who we were. She was gone, regardless as to whether her heart was still beating and her mind still racing. Pat was gone. It was now just a person lying there. My grandmother watched, as her baby sister, childhood secret keeper, and best friend, sat in pain. It hurt for her to live, and it pained us to know she was going to die. I looked over at my grandmother, who now looked particularly different. That tiny glimmer of hope in her eyes had now been shattered.
God had taken her health, and now he was taking her away. That’s how it seemed at the time. Now, looking back, I know it was a blessing. She simply moved on where she could be happy, and it would be selfish to look at it as anything else. Sure it’s okay to miss her, who wouldn’t? It wasn’t anything we could do anymore aside from letting go. And we did.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
WA-1
I watched as my grandmother gently wiped the remaining blood from her chin. My great aunt, Pat had fallen last night, trying to get from her bed to her bathroom.
“You know better.” My grandmother said, “You can’t do that anymore without someone here to help you.”
I watched her eyes, full of hope, thinking that one day, somehow, Pat would be back to her normal self. After the first stroke caused her to be partially paralyzed, my grandmother had taken care of her baby sister. And Pat wasn’t the only one that was affected by the stroke. My grandmother stayed up every hour, her mind racing too fast to even consider falling asleep.
“Now you be careful next time, and press that button right here,” she said pointing towards the nurse button, “and someone will be in here very quickly.”
Over these past couple of years, Pat had started as such a jolly person. Always telling jokes, and making sarcastic remarks. Then she had her first episode, and she didn’t have the mind to be such the happy woman that she once was. Her health wouldn’t permit it. We would take her to our home every weekend, to prevent us from having to make numerous trips to Culpepper. In my opinion, it only made things harder. But in my ten-year-old mind, all of this was just making things harder. I didn’t understand why she got all of the attention, and I was mad at her for causing my family so much pain. Looking back, I feel sorry for my immaturity about the whole subject.
Late at night, we received a phone call from the doctor. He said that Pat had just another stroke and her kidney was failing. She only had about a week to live. We all got up the next morning, and took shifts sitting by her bed, watching her body and mind just drift away. She was noticeably unhealthy, and obviously ready to go. She had been through so much in her life: all the pains of dialysis, the suffering of not seeing her family, and the claustrophobic feelings of being stuck within that nursing home. We had all tried to help as much as we could, but it just wasn’t enough.
She slept most of that week, occasionally looking up at the people surrounding her. I don’t think she really knew who we were. She was gone, regardless as to whether her heart was still beating and her mind still racing. Pat was gone. It was now just a person lying there. My grandmother watched, as her baby sister, childhood secret keeper, and best friend, sat in pain. It hurt for her to live, and it pained us to know she was going to die. I looked over at my grandmother, who now looked extremely different. That tiny glimmer of hope in her eyes was shattered.
God had taken her health, and now he was taking her away. That’s how it seemed at the time. Now, looking back, I know it was a blessing. She simply moved on where she could be happy, and it would be selfish to look at it as anything else. Sure it’s okay to miss her, who wouldn’t? It wasn’t anything we could do anymore aside from letting go. And we did.
“You know better.” My grandmother said, “You can’t do that anymore without someone here to help you.”
I watched her eyes, full of hope, thinking that one day, somehow, Pat would be back to her normal self. After the first stroke caused her to be partially paralyzed, my grandmother had taken care of her baby sister. And Pat wasn’t the only one that was affected by the stroke. My grandmother stayed up every hour, her mind racing too fast to even consider falling asleep.
“Now you be careful next time, and press that button right here,” she said pointing towards the nurse button, “and someone will be in here very quickly.”
Over these past couple of years, Pat had started as such a jolly person. Always telling jokes, and making sarcastic remarks. Then she had her first episode, and she didn’t have the mind to be such the happy woman that she once was. Her health wouldn’t permit it. We would take her to our home every weekend, to prevent us from having to make numerous trips to Culpepper. In my opinion, it only made things harder. But in my ten-year-old mind, all of this was just making things harder. I didn’t understand why she got all of the attention, and I was mad at her for causing my family so much pain. Looking back, I feel sorry for my immaturity about the whole subject.
Late at night, we received a phone call from the doctor. He said that Pat had just another stroke and her kidney was failing. She only had about a week to live. We all got up the next morning, and took shifts sitting by her bed, watching her body and mind just drift away. She was noticeably unhealthy, and obviously ready to go. She had been through so much in her life: all the pains of dialysis, the suffering of not seeing her family, and the claustrophobic feelings of being stuck within that nursing home. We had all tried to help as much as we could, but it just wasn’t enough.
She slept most of that week, occasionally looking up at the people surrounding her. I don’t think she really knew who we were. She was gone, regardless as to whether her heart was still beating and her mind still racing. Pat was gone. It was now just a person lying there. My grandmother watched, as her baby sister, childhood secret keeper, and best friend, sat in pain. It hurt for her to live, and it pained us to know she was going to die. I looked over at my grandmother, who now looked extremely different. That tiny glimmer of hope in her eyes was shattered.
God had taken her health, and now he was taking her away. That’s how it seemed at the time. Now, looking back, I know it was a blessing. She simply moved on where she could be happy, and it would be selfish to look at it as anything else. Sure it’s okay to miss her, who wouldn’t? It wasn’t anything we could do anymore aside from letting go. And we did.
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