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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Teens
- Theme: Family & Friends
- Subject: Memory / Reminiscence
- Published: 03/02/2013
Mother
Born 1999, F, from Hong Kong, Hong Kong"Mother do you think they'll drop the bomb?
Mother do you think they'll like this song?"
You would play Pink Floyd, every night. "Mother" was your favourite song.
It's funny really, that when I remember you, the first thing I think about are your eyes, crinkling at the edges as your laughter rings out as a church bells cries bouncing off hilltops. They could be the greenest kind of green, the kind of green that makes you look twice and think of peppermints and bright lights. And what bright lights they were, passionate and luminous, full of life, even when you no longer possessed what they held. They could also be the green of the wood, deep and unreadable, making you question yourself when there was no inquiry being posed. The second thing my mind turns to are your blue jeans. I recall them so vividly, it is as if time was rewriting itself before me, but I am frozen in place.
My mother owned one pair of perfect blue denim jeans, and they fit her like a second skin. When I say that they are perfect, it is not to say that they were pristine and that the material felt as if it was spun from woven silk. The intention of my diction is that they were perfect for her. By the modern day definition of perfection, they could be about the furthest thing from. But you see, this one pair of blue denim jeans suited her so very well that the only word in the English language that I could possibly use to describe them would be perfect, so pardon the value of my diction.
The jeans were worn and faded at the knees, going from a very deep blue to almost bleached white from when you had to kneel and talk to me face to face, because I hated it when you stood above me. The only time I openly accepted our difference in height was when I was afraid and I buried and burrowed my face into your jeans, which always held the scent of talcum powder and wafts of lilac fabric softener. She'd hold me as I cried and as I laughed, her long brown hair in a slovenly ponytail at the back of her head.
They say that it's far easier to remember terrible or humiliating events that occur in one's lifetime than the beautiful, special things. Perhaps this is to make the beautiful and special things even more beautiful and special. I still can't quite fathom that with the vast stretch of our existence, so many moments are forgotten, turned into meager grains in the sands of time.
It must be different for me. For I remember a great many beautiful and special things, simple, yet bold and important in their own right. I remember my mother's laugh, the way it seemed to stretch from her head to the very tip of her toes. I remember how she used to hold my hand until I fell asleep. It's as if I put a mental block on all the memories that I don't want to remember. Of course I still have a vague recollection of these moments. For instance, I remember how my mother used to come home from her job as a waitress in stained clothing and eye bags. I knew her job didn't pay her well, for we lived in a tiny house in one of the worst neighborhoods in town. She was a single mother and she raised me so well, yet I kept asking for more and more, and she kept giving and giving. This is the first of the many things I am sorry for.
I recall her crying late at night after she left my room, and I felt her presence leave too, the absence of her warmth leaving me cold and empty. There are 2 types of cries. The first is sobbing, when you think that all is lost, but you secretly know it will be all right. This is the type of tear that should not be shed, for tears are unnecessary and pitiful. The second type of tear, is when all is lost. These were the tears that my mother cried.
My mother was an incredibly brave woman. She wouldn't take anybody's pity, for she was as proud as a queen. But no matter how high your nose is in the clouds, does not change what goes on down below. My mother knew this, and she was proud yet. Or at least, I thought so until that one night when I entered her room. It was the moment that was sealed into my memory, and I will remember it for the rest of my life.
I had always thought of my mother as my hero. She couldn't fly, yet to me it was like she possessed wings. These wings couldn't make her fly but she soared ahead of all of us, because of her drive and her will. I thought she could do anything, because her determination was so great. The moment I stepped into that room, as young as I was, my mother stopped being my hero. I didn't understand, I couldn't understand. This is another thing that I am sorry for.
But could you ever be sorry, for what I saw, what I could never see again. For in that moment, you killed me. Just like you killed yourself.
So on this day, the 20th anniversary of the day that you left me, I stand above your grave, to show my sorrow. To show that I am sorry, that I couldn't have done a thing to prevent your death. To show, that I could have, if you had only let me. It's far too late now, so I leave you a single yellow rose, yellow for sorrow. I leave them with the other ones, which have wilted and decayed, their yellow petals rotting away to a terrible brown, their once sweet scent now putrid. My sorrow is buried six feet under the soil, with brilliant green eyes that will never lose their sparkle, but your sorrow walks the earth, wondering, regretting and wishing.
With that final thought blown to the wind, along with all the rest, I left, for the last time. I will never come back, because no matter how much I yearn for you to be, you shall never again be my hero.
Mother(Alex)
"Mother do you think they'll drop the bomb?
Mother do you think they'll like this song?"
You would play Pink Floyd, every night. "Mother" was your favourite song.
It's funny really, that when I remember you, the first thing I think about are your eyes, crinkling at the edges as your laughter rings out as a church bells cries bouncing off hilltops. They could be the greenest kind of green, the kind of green that makes you look twice and think of peppermints and bright lights. And what bright lights they were, passionate and luminous, full of life, even when you no longer possessed what they held. They could also be the green of the wood, deep and unreadable, making you question yourself when there was no inquiry being posed. The second thing my mind turns to are your blue jeans. I recall them so vividly, it is as if time was rewriting itself before me, but I am frozen in place.
My mother owned one pair of perfect blue denim jeans, and they fit her like a second skin. When I say that they are perfect, it is not to say that they were pristine and that the material felt as if it was spun from woven silk. The intention of my diction is that they were perfect for her. By the modern day definition of perfection, they could be about the furthest thing from. But you see, this one pair of blue denim jeans suited her so very well that the only word in the English language that I could possibly use to describe them would be perfect, so pardon the value of my diction.
The jeans were worn and faded at the knees, going from a very deep blue to almost bleached white from when you had to kneel and talk to me face to face, because I hated it when you stood above me. The only time I openly accepted our difference in height was when I was afraid and I buried and burrowed my face into your jeans, which always held the scent of talcum powder and wafts of lilac fabric softener. She'd hold me as I cried and as I laughed, her long brown hair in a slovenly ponytail at the back of her head.
They say that it's far easier to remember terrible or humiliating events that occur in one's lifetime than the beautiful, special things. Perhaps this is to make the beautiful and special things even more beautiful and special. I still can't quite fathom that with the vast stretch of our existence, so many moments are forgotten, turned into meager grains in the sands of time.
It must be different for me. For I remember a great many beautiful and special things, simple, yet bold and important in their own right. I remember my mother's laugh, the way it seemed to stretch from her head to the very tip of her toes. I remember how she used to hold my hand until I fell asleep. It's as if I put a mental block on all the memories that I don't want to remember. Of course I still have a vague recollection of these moments. For instance, I remember how my mother used to come home from her job as a waitress in stained clothing and eye bags. I knew her job didn't pay her well, for we lived in a tiny house in one of the worst neighborhoods in town. She was a single mother and she raised me so well, yet I kept asking for more and more, and she kept giving and giving. This is the first of the many things I am sorry for.
I recall her crying late at night after she left my room, and I felt her presence leave too, the absence of her warmth leaving me cold and empty. There are 2 types of cries. The first is sobbing, when you think that all is lost, but you secretly know it will be all right. This is the type of tear that should not be shed, for tears are unnecessary and pitiful. The second type of tear, is when all is lost. These were the tears that my mother cried.
My mother was an incredibly brave woman. She wouldn't take anybody's pity, for she was as proud as a queen. But no matter how high your nose is in the clouds, does not change what goes on down below. My mother knew this, and she was proud yet. Or at least, I thought so until that one night when I entered her room. It was the moment that was sealed into my memory, and I will remember it for the rest of my life.
I had always thought of my mother as my hero. She couldn't fly, yet to me it was like she possessed wings. These wings couldn't make her fly but she soared ahead of all of us, because of her drive and her will. I thought she could do anything, because her determination was so great. The moment I stepped into that room, as young as I was, my mother stopped being my hero. I didn't understand, I couldn't understand. This is another thing that I am sorry for.
But could you ever be sorry, for what I saw, what I could never see again. For in that moment, you killed me. Just like you killed yourself.
So on this day, the 20th anniversary of the day that you left me, I stand above your grave, to show my sorrow. To show that I am sorry, that I couldn't have done a thing to prevent your death. To show, that I could have, if you had only let me. It's far too late now, so I leave you a single yellow rose, yellow for sorrow. I leave them with the other ones, which have wilted and decayed, their yellow petals rotting away to a terrible brown, their once sweet scent now putrid. My sorrow is buried six feet under the soil, with brilliant green eyes that will never lose their sparkle, but your sorrow walks the earth, wondering, regretting and wishing.
With that final thought blown to the wind, along with all the rest, I left, for the last time. I will never come back, because no matter how much I yearn for you to be, you shall never again be my hero.
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