Personal Narrative: My Mothers Wound

We only notice the important things in life when they are gone, when the wound left by them hurts so deeply and so consistently that it cannot be called anything less than torture. A mothers love is unique, it cannot be replicated, nor can it be forgotten but it can be served to cause the most horrendous pain know to man, a wound as terrifying as its maker, a wound of loss. My mothers love, her presence, her lessons and her memory, once my source of strength, was perverted and turned upon me through the slow and painful process that was my mothers death. At first, I felt that this wound, the wound of loss, could not last much longer, that the constant pain of memories would stop plaguing me every waking hour and every sleeping moment. I was

Today I stand with 18 years upon my back, and i feel as though through out these 18 years I have been several different people, all of them so different and so alike that even pondering their differences bewilders me. At first, I was the naive and brave boy curious of everything from the sky above to the ground below, but soon enough the answers started to bore me and the questions seemed become more scarce with each passing moment, so I became the impulsive and stubborn teenager who fought the world at every step and never gave an inch, but soon I would grow weary of constantly fighting, and thus decided to become more passive but no less aggressive, and so opinionated that I antagonized others who sought to contradict me, and when I had finally reached a semblance of happiness was when the cold and capricious hands of life decided to wrench it all away from with one dreadful swing of the scythe. Cancer took my mother through a slow and painful demise, a process so lethargic that it seemed to be purposefully so, that life was warning me a final time the my happiness was and forever will be forbidden. However, if I had learned anything from my past it would be to always question, to fight for every inch and relinquish none, to hold my own beliefs despite of whatever others would tell me, and so, despite life's warnings , despite my mothers suffering and eventual death, I

I once knew not the purpose that love held, why would I need anyone else but me? Now, I see that even at the smallest quantities, love can be used to win over the blackest of odds. NoNo amount of sadness would bring my mother back, but I am glad I was spared the pain of depression by the love and kindness of my friends, I am glad we