I was birthed from the sky. “Goodbye Drippy” mother cloud said with great emotion. “Why must I go” I cried to mother. “I can no longer support you my child, the weight you put on me I can no longer bare.” I did not want to precipitate, but I knew it was best. “We shall me again Drippy.” My small water droplet body began to free fall. The trauma of leaving mother left my memory blank. The next thing I remember was my shapeless body laying motionless in a puddle. I was unsure of where I was till I looked up and saw a sign that read “Selfridge Street.” It was not long before I was bombarded with a wave of surface runoff that carried me to a nearby sewer. The sky echo with a loud “BOOM!” I thought of the poor water droplets that were now falling from the sky. They too were now orphans. The sewer was now filled with a sea of water droplets. I knew I had to get out of there. This “Selfridge” place must of had a CSO system because next thing I knew I overflowing into the Hudson River. …show more content…
The river flow guided me to the Pacific Ocean. The tides carried my petite water droplet body. I began to feel a little odd. I was not sure if it was my form of coping. My body was turning into a gas. I was no longer a water droplet. I was evaporating into the atmosphere. Was this my chance to see mother cloud again? I looked around but there was no sight of mother. Quickly my water vapor body began to go through the process of condensation. I transitioned back to my old water droplet body. I now was in a cloud, but this cloud was certainly was not mother. This cloud was moving upstate. My mother rarely traveled upstate. Once again I precipitated. I landed in the Ashokan reservoir. It appeared to be over 11 miles long. The tunnel flow drifted me to the Catskill Aqueduct. From there the tunnel flow guided me to the Kensico reservoir. Man,was this a long trip! Millions of orphan water droplets surrounded
Then the Papa’s sigh of loneliness became the mist that rose up from the ground.
The clouds roll by saturated with teardrops, evidence of the burden they carry. Pure blue is wiped from the sky, replaced by a gun-metal gray shot through with a bruised night. The trees shudder with chills as they brace themselves for the downpour. Then, the clouds slow down, dragging themselves forward, bogged down by the weight of their luggage. A few tears spill, darkening the earth at the points of contact. They pause. Should they move on, move just a little bit farther? No, thunder and lightning follow, the first heart-wrenching sob that unleashes torrents of grief. As the clouds above hold each other while they weep, I watch as a small, pink worm pushes through to the surface emerging from the tear-streaked soil. The world rages around him while he tests the air and gathers his bearings. It is not cautious, nor contemplative;
I thought I was going to leave empty handed until I spotted the stack of boxes in the far left corner. There was a small wooden box on the top labeled David Walker with black sharpie. This is it. I thought. I sprinted out of the attic holding the box in one hand and the ladder in the other. Out of breath, I plopped down onto my bed, sitting with my legs crossed and the box out in front of me. Answers… Please give me answers. I thought as I opened the box. Inside held a picture of a man with dark skin and short black hair. I assumed this was my father. In his arms was my mother. They were both smiling uncontrollably as if it was the best day of their lives. What went wrong… I thought. Underneath was a black journal, tied shut with a thick string. I lifted it out of the box, untied the string, and began to read the
Tears flooded my face as I let her hand go. I love my mother dearly, but without father I had to be the head of the house. The one to take charge in times like these. She was in not in a good place of mind to be rational. Why had father forsaken us like this, why couldn't we just go home and be with him. The thoughts swirled around my head but the next thing I knew was mother laying on the ground in pain. Her face crinkled and puffy as she clenched her stomach in the delicate hands.
“It came from the fog…” A newspaper article explaining the death of my parents. Five years ago, I came home from Girl Scout camp, to find my parents died in a supposed murder. Not being told the details, I knew that I did not have any family to take custody of me, so I would be put into foster care. After three years of bouncing from house to house, I was finally paired with a family who was willing to take me permanently into their home. I attempted to let go the mystery of my parents’ death, and started looking forward.
It was a Monday night; I remember it like it was yesterday. I had just completed my review of Office Administration in preparation for my final exams. As part of my leisure time, I decided to watch my favorite reality television show, “I love New York,” when the telephone rang. I immediately felt my stomach dropped. The feeling was similar to watching a horror movie reaching its climax. The intensity was swirling in my stomach as if it were the home for the butterflies. My hands began to sweat and I got very nervous. I could not figure out for the life of me why these feelings came around. I lay there on the couch, confused and still, while the rings continued. My dearest mother decided to answer this eerie phone call. As she picked up, I sat straight up. I muted the television in hopes of hearing what the conversation. At approximately three minutes later, the telephone fell from my mother’s hands with her faced drowned in the waves of water coming from her eyes. She cried “Why?” My Grandmother had just died.
The sun was shining through the open windows of the crowded, Twinkie-colored bus. The wind was blowing my hair into my face, and I could not wait to see my mommy. There were children yelling because it was Friday and school was out for the week. The excitement of the weekend was on all of the children’s minds. The bus slowed, turned into my mobile home park, and screeched to a stop. I got off the bus and ran into the arms of my mother. I remember her hair smelled like Pert Plus, and she was wearing her favorite perfume, White Shoulders. She would greet me off the bus every day. I loved to see her immediately after a long day of fifth grade. To me this was a normal day. However, to my mother, it was a scary, heartbreaking day.
It was a cold October afternoon in 1996, and I raced down the stairs and out the front door, in an attempt to avoid my mother's questions of where I was going, with whom, and when I'd be back. I saw my friend Kolin pull up in his rusted, broken-down gray van, and the side door opened as Mark jumped out and motioned for me to come. I was just about to get in when my mother called from the front doorway. She wanted to talk to me, but I didn't want to talk to her, so I hopped in pretending I hadn't heard her and told Kolin to drive off.
Then came the rains. Then came the floods. Then came “the Incident.” A traumatic event tore everything apart that I had once created, slashing my life to shreds. Everything that I had once built for myself was consumed, never to return. I watched as everything I loved withered and turned gray while everything I touched shriveled and died. As John Fogerty puts it, “And I wondered, still I wondered—who’ll stop the rain?” It beat me down, broke me, crushed me until there was nothing left inside. “How can a man return from that?” I asked
There once was a girl who lived a happy life until the age of thirteen. Everything changed that day because that 's when her mother started emotionally, mentally, and verbally abusing her. The girl wanted nothing more than to be loved by her mother but that was not the case. Her mother thought that she was nothing than a worthless piece of garbage on the street. Every day the girl 's mom had something negative to say to the girl whether it was that she was stupid, worthless, or even someone who nobody wanted around. Every day the girl wished to be accepted by her mother, but she knew deep down that would never happen. The girl battled anxiety and depression disorder caused by her mother 's years of torture and abusive ways. The girl was on
There was a little boy by my side who look incredibly cold so I handed him on of my many jackets. He smiled and his mother thanked me. I then looked over to see by forty-seven year old husband ripping a a life vest apart with a pen. Furry hit me, why was he such an idiot ? Now looking back on it I should have listened to my mother when she told me not to marry him, but I was young and he was rich. There was nothing more I need, or so I thought. If I would have never married him, I would have never been in that position in the first place. I stepped out of my trance to hear a man from down the hall calling for all the women and children in our room. So I stood up and began to walk down the now some what slanted hall. John followed quickly behind me. There was a great window at the end of the hall that women and children were to climb out of to get into a life boat number four. John attempted to climb on with me but it was to late. I yelled my goodbye , but I could not see him. Women began to cry for the death that they knew was upon their husbands, but I was silent and still. I let the brisk sea air sweep across my face and did not move. For a brief second I was devastated, but in all actuality I was simply in shock. I could not see the light at the end off the tunnel. I was eighteen, pregnant, and I knew that my husband would die. Maybe it was for the better, but that shall
The first night dad stayed at the hotel, by mom’s side and I attempted to go home to bed. As soon as I walked into my front door and saw the place where my mother fell, with baking flour from her unfinished dinner preparations propelled across the kitchen floor, I had a feeling of uneasiness come over me that still to this day I cannot put into words. I frantically ran up the stairs to my room, turning on every light that came into my path. I grabbed cloths and once left the house as quickly as I entered, I called my friend who I knew would be there for me “Liam” I said, still out of breath from my run through the house “I need help. Can I stay the night at your house?” “Sure” he replied with a puzzled tone “come on over
During my freshman year of college, I had met one of my best friends, who go by name Jill. (She lives in New Jersey and while I live in Pennsylvania) I found it to be strange that sometimes, it feels like we have grown up with one another but in reality we have only one another for four years and I couldn’t be more thankful. I can remember when we met at school as if it was yesterday.
At this point I was no longer numb, but vulnerable. I needed somebody to just drown me with love, and what better place to visit than the home of my siblings. Something inside of me believed so desperately my mother had changed; that she would welcome me with opened arms, and I would be reunited with some of my siblings. So I returned to my old place of torment full of hope. Nothing could have prepared me for her response. As I rang the doorbell I was neither welcomed or loved. I watch her peep out the door and close it in my face after she realized it was
The car ride home my mother didn’t speak to me. The only thing breaking the silence between us was the loud screeching noise from her car. I knew that I had a lot of explaining to do but I had no idea how to even begin. Rather than caring about my mother’s feelings at the time I was more caught up on the hurt and betrayal I had felt from Katie. It was a painful feeling.