“... a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh. So they are no longer two, but one flesh” (Mark 10:6–8)
Dark, yet I found it peaceful and calm
My mother’s womb acted as a safe refuge for the creation of my delicate body and mind. After several months asleep in silence, I was suddenly awoken by the rays of blinding white light that shone above me. I entered the world in a rather peculiar room. White ceramic tiles tessellated the floor, baby blue paint washed across the walls, and strange looking equipment laid nearby.
I was overwhelmed by colossal, moving bodies, each with a unique expression of jubilance, some real, others fabricated. They were indistinguishable with their aqua
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Amongst all the commotion that stirred around me, a maternal figure stood out. Her love and affection radiated immensely, parting my sea of fears and drawing me closer towards her. Providing indispensable warmth and comfort, she held me tight. I soon accepted her as an individual whom I call Mother.
I smiled and giggled.
Years had gone by. Mother nurtured me solitarily, despite working long, strenuous hours at the local delicatessen to ensure that we always had enough of what we needed. We resided in a single bedroom house, situated in Baflo - a quiet, peaceful village in the Netherlands. The dwelling had been a prized possession of my late grandparents, handed down to my mother when they left.
Mother came and picked me up from school. It was a Christian school. Silent was our ride home. Her face was different, nothing like I had seen before. She did not look at me in the eyes, as if I was inflicted with the curse of Medusa. Worried and restless, tears came out of my eyes in hope that it would wash away the impurities Mother sees in me.
I knew it was wrong. I had lied and quarreled with my teacher regarding a petty
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Although perturbed, Mother began to recount the events that occurred which resulted in Father leaving us. Regardless of being short-tempered, Father was apparently a respectable, and diligent man, always expecting the best. He divorced on the day following my birth, after months in feud with Mother because she did not work hard enough to satisfy him.
Mother persevered through hard times to get the best out of me. I was convinced that it was not her fault. Encouraged by my mother’s story, I decided to strive harder towards pursuing a successful future, to repay her for all the kindness and love she has poured into me. Everything I do would be for Mother.
Light faded away and shadow soon engulfed the town. The blackout absorbed all radiance, leaving mother nature’s twilight sky to shine one last time before the sun sets. Fortunately, my mother immediately lit a candle, illuminating our house in sepia shades of brown, orange and yellow. Exhausted, I snuggled beside my mother, drifting away to
While this book displays unhealthy dealings with unforgiveness, it emphasizes the importance of fatherhood. This realization is imperative in an age where the divorce is commonplace. In the case of Craig and Rudell, the fact that the birth father was not a part of his son’s formative years inspired Craig to become a better man, even though it caused him grief. The author testifies that with determination and hope, a new furrow can be plowed. In sharing his own defeats and subsequent victories, Lesley compels future generations to overcome their negative histories and weave redeeming scenes into their life stories. Overall, this enthralling memoir offers the reader a satisfying taste of the importance of
I walked into the room on New Year’s Day and felt a sudden twinge of fear. My eyes already hurt from the tears I had shed and those tears would not stop even then the last viewing before we had to leave. She lay quietly on the bed with her face as void of emotion as a sheet of paper without the writing. Slowly, I approached the cold lifeless form that was once my mother and gave her a goodbye kiss.
“The house is settling,” my Italian carer would say as the lights dimmed and glowed in her ghostly presence… but this wasn’t all the house did. I slept in my room. Well, not really slept. Sleep was never something I did much of, especially early on. My worries at seven pm far outweighed my need for sleep. Awake. Forever awake. My father had left me. My mother…
As a child, I spent a lot of time with my parents – especially my mother. While I was in elementary school she chose to dedicate an hour of her night to help me with my homework if I needed the assistance. There were plenty of times when I chose to spend time with her simply because I enjoyed he...
How odd a word to put on one of her lovely candles. It seemed strange not to see a word of hope, love, charity or even family. Remember. Why would Momma put such a simple word on this last candle? Taking the candle down from the shelf, memories of Momma flooded into my mind. Her soft golden hair, the smell of her favorite perfume, even the memory of her voice seemed to echo in my ear.
I gazed into his bluish-green eyes while crying tears of joy. I could not believe that something so beautiful had grown inside of me. With a new found independence, I finally found happiness. In school my grades improved, my attitude was positive, and I figured out that my career choice was going to be to pursue a doctorate in pharmacy. My son has inspired me to excel in everything that I do. With him now being 3 years old, I have accomplished more with him than I would have without him. I have learned that sometimes we face obstacles in life that seem too much to bear. In comparison to Kincaid’s short story the tough love from my mom molded me to be the woman that I am today. Some might say that the mother in Kincaid’s story was too assertive, but I feel that the mother was only trying to give her daughter the tools in life that she
Deep in thought) The days where loving my own babe is now passed, however, the memories pasteurized in my mind. Her innocence and beauty shaped her very need for a motherly figure. Her naïve joy resonated from her, infectious to any in hearing proximity. I, her mother, role model and queen, held her against my breasts with a love unexplored by any man. (slowed speech. Remembering real task but still thinking of daughter) The mothers love I felt… no. It must not be. The coldness of heart is the blessing I ask for and must illustrate. I must not remember these simple womanly emotions, or the turmoil of mind will place a self-drawn dagger between my own breasts . (aggressive) I must pray harder; spirits why do you not listen! I command you to transform me now! I say, unsex me ! Remove the passage of remorse! I tell you, yield before my commands as I am the powerful. (Each word screamed with slight pause) I. Am.
When growing up, a child’s relationship with their mother is a major part of development. Sometimes, that bondage between our parents can start to split based on different opinions and perspectives. In Amy Chua’s Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mom, she describes her relationship with her daughter as a calm and loving conversation, while in Amy Tan’s The Joy Luck Club, she describes her relationship with her mother as bitter and hostile.
hardships of life. Even so, the distant father who was never involved in his son’s life is a
There are these flaming red roses that look like they were made exactly for my true love
The peace treaties were both fair and unfair as the losing side suffered greatly due to the treaties yet it made up for the deaths and destruction caused by the losing nations. The Big 3, USA, Britain, and France, came together in 1919 to discuss how they would prevent another war. The only way they thought this could happen was by punishing Germany and the other losing countries, as Germany was very strong before the war and the Big 3 did not want Germany to be strong enough to start another war. To enforce this the Big 3 wrote up the Treaty of Versailles, which included a loss of Germany’s land and a huge loss of 2/3’s of Hungarian land.
I remember when I was five years old. It’s already dusk. The sunset scenery was extremely vivid to my mind. My eyes are steady to the horizon, face aglow with the last orange rays before twilight beckons the stars. I have watched with a steadfast gaze, as the burning red light sank beneath the horizon, the threads of light dawdled in the sky, blending with the rolling heaps of clouds, the cool breeze of the pristine air pass through my innocent body, dyeing the sky orange, then red, and blue until it becomes entirely dark.
Ten years ago my world changed forever. My father was killed and a part of my culture died with him. The white men rebuilt our lives with their god and laws. I may have been the most like my father but now I am just another mother worried for her three children. I can not fight the directly but I can preserve my culture.
As I remember, Mother is sitting on my side of the bed, her face illuminated by the candle’s dim glow. She is singing the lullaby we both know so well, the smooth words rolling off her tongue, melding like honey upon our eager ears. Her fingers sweep gently over us. As the breathing in the room calms, Mother blows out the flame, leaving the room in a cool darkness. I am usually asleep before she eases herself out and exits the room quietly.
It was finally fall break. I was visiting my grandma for a few days. Well past dinnertime, I pulled up to the white stately home in northern rural Iowa. I parked my car, unloaded my bag and pillow, and crunched through the leaves to the front porch. The porch was just how I had seen it last; to the right, a small iron table and chairs, along with an old antique brass pole lamp, and on the left, a flowered glider that I have spent many a summer afternoon on, swaying back and forth, just thinking.