Personal Narrative: Little Things

Remaining on the gravel road, passing the first curb with a big old pine tree on the left. The sudden calmness takes over my body, as I approach her gravestone feeling her presence. The smell of fresh, crisp pine trees in your nasal cavities. The smell is much stronger this morning from the rain storm the night before and so relaxing like the smell of a little tree air freshener. I approach to her gravestone, as the summer morning warmth hugs me tightly and the morning breeze runs through my long black hair. The chorus of birds flocking in the blue sky. As I walk up the little hill to her gravestone, I pass the baby boy that lays beside her. His old, dirty gray gravestone in a heart shape with his name engraved in between a ribbon. His bright,

During the current Easter break, I ventured to Denver, Colorado with two others. The day after our arrival, I broke away from the group for a short period of time to visit Riverside Cemetery. Peering through the cemetery’s aligned headstones as if they were rows of filled bookshelves, my pupils skimmed from one headstone to the next, searching for an appealing name to take home to investigate like it was a book to check out from the library.

Tuesday, September 12th wasn’t any normal day, it was a day of remembrance and sadness. Everyone in the family met at the church at 10 a.m., we then sat there and socialized until eleven o'clock. The preacher, pianist, and singer then walked out into the chapel where we all sat, with emptiness in our hearts. The pianist then started playing a church tune, and the singer, a lady from the church, started singing. Some of the people in the family then glanced at each other and tried not to laugh at the horrid sound of the lady. After she finally stopped singing, the pastor walked up to the casket. He then said, “Bow your heads, We stand here today to honor Robert F. “Bob” Williams.”

Sister Muriel, who was also my grandmother, and who I affectionately referred to as granny, was a bit more tired than usual on the eve of December 10, 1958.  Slumber seemed to be calling early, so quietly heading toward the dorm seemed to be the best idea to take her tired body. As her feet climbed the stairs, she could feel the cool breeze against her face, and her body seemed to be a little more difficult going up these steep cement steps, there were so many of them. This evening seemed to encourage reflective thoughts, normally she had a smile for everyone, but tonight her mood a bit melancholy, but then again it could be she had a long day serving, or she missed her deceased husband, Merritt.  However, the quiet, evening allowed her to

Currently, she was at the local cemetery, where all around, freshly fallen snow twinkled and glistened on the once green ground. The pale gray pathway had been shoveled, however, so that people could get around the cemetery easily. Mrs. Ferguson was listening attentively to the pastor, who was describing Mr. Ferguson’s life. Only Mr. Ferguson’s close family had been invited to attend the funeral, so they all knew every detail of his life, but it was common practice to read it all anyways.

The morning wind is as cold as ice, slicing passed my skin while I’m standing against it. It always like today of every year: cloudy, cold and sad. Like the sky is crying with me. I blend down to a tall, sleek, marble stone with the name “Amelia Bennett” written on it. That’s my mother’s name. She died when I was 7 year-old, it’s odd that I have the memories of her very clearly in my brain. Most children probably won’t. But I do, and I when I do, I missed her. I don’t even know what happened on that tragic day. I was blacked out and the next thing I remember is that she’s now laying deep underneath my feet. No one knows what happen, or no one wants to talk about it, not even my aunt. She’s the one that take me in after the accident. Why? Because

Abbey would stay with our father while I had some much needed time away. If she was unable to, the visiting hospice nurse accompanied his needs. The hours I spent at a bunch of graves would appear obsessive to some, but it was comforting to be near even if it was at gravestones. Perhaps it was a way to connect with Calvin, despite the reality of his death. Visiting his stone, keeping the lots maintained; all of these factors, as trivial as they were, helped with my grief. A minor part of me felt foolish, while the majority indispensably embraced this without

All seven of us said a quick ‘Amen’ before walking out of the cemetery with the priest. We weren’t sure what we had to do, but the prospect of staying longer than necessarily was frightening and we didn’t have any flowers to lay down or any messages we wanted to whisper to the

Never had the church been so crowded, but on this desolate event, for this bleak day belong to Dominique's funeral. The terrible announcement of her inexplicable and violent death, had flown reaching the region's farthest corners. Elevated in a manner, that allowed the congregation, a favorable overview, stood the child size wooden coffin. Covered with a black cloth, where a large emblematic silver cross, dimly shone, it was overlaid with a profusion of white lilies and roses. A magnificent, if mournful sight, it was.

I sat in my silent grief and awaited the start of the funeral service. I struggled to hold back the grief; tears flew steadily and silently down my immobile face. I felt bruised inside, numbness, emptiness, as I walked behind dad’s coffin. Although he is gone already, my soul unwilling wants to acknowledge the finality of death, thinking about how I will never be able to look upon his face again, see the warmth in his eyes,

Grandpa’s cancer had gotten so bad that the entire family had gathered around him. Alone, I was sent for help. I was only fourteen and I remember thinking to myself, “God please don’t take him before I get to say goodbye!” I was running so quickly and it was so dark that I tripped and barely caught my balance. Even though we hurried back, he was gone. It was the worst thing that could have happened to me. All I remember is dropping to the ground in a puddle of tears; I didn’t think God would just take him from us like that. I didn’t even get to say goodbye or that I loved him. It was so unfair. He was gone from our lives, but not our hearts. Even so, I felt as though I failed because we didn’t make it back in time.

I kneel down beside the weeping angel and mumble a prayer from behind the scarf covering the lower half of my face. Then, without planning to, I launch into an account of all the things she’s missed the last few months. I pause abruptly, thoughts trailing off to the early Sunday morning when I found her lying in a pool of vulgar red, wrists slashed and no longer breathing. A few quiet moments pass before I hastily swipe at the tears that escape my eyes and stand to leave.

As I stand here, with my hand resting on your coffin, breathing in the scent of lilies and of wood-polish, the congregation is watching and waiting. The guests file into the church with the cool, morning, Melbourne breeze sending shivers down everyone’s spines. All the other guests greeted each other with upturned brows, watery eyes, forced smiles, and lingering embraces. The occasional person comes up and embraces me and tells me “everything is going to be okay," when they know its quite far from it. The crowd was growing quickly as more people flowed through the front door, all of them dressed in monotone fashions. Staring at me through the tears that fill their eyes are the people who cared and still care about you. I’m taking these few minutes to prepare myself, before I have to deliver your eulogy.

Just before the my first day of middle school, my Aunt was admitted into the hospital. She had a gruesome battle with colon cancer for the past 18 months. She had been to the hospital many times before, had large amounts of her intestines removed, and lived to tell the tale. Sadly, this was not one of those times. This was my mother’s sister, and she drove to the Akron hospital to visit her. She came home that evening and sat me down, and I knew from the grave look on her face that something was wrong. “Justin, Aunt Patti isn’t coming home.” I cried and reasoned and asked why the doctors couldn’t do anything. My mother could not give the answers I so desired. I cried myself to sleep. The last seven days of my aunt’s life were spent in hospice. She was on an large amount of painkillers so she couldn't feel any more pain. Her eyes were closed and couldn’t talk, she was in an almost comatose state. I remember walking into her room for the first time. I’d never seen more love in one place. Her husband sat and slept in a chair beside her bed. We all were talking to her and joking and laughing about the good times had. The doctor said she couldn’t hear us, but that didn’t stop us. Any time she exhaled or let out a subtle grunt or moan, that was our sign that she was listening, trying to

Miss Meela wailed underneath her broad brimmed hat as the pallbearers lowered the casket, carrying her young kin. Just twenty four months of life before death came upon the home, leaving nothing but remnants of sorrow and despair in the little village in Cascade. Her wide eyes a bloodshot red welled up with salty tears as blankets of raw dirt covered the cream mahogany casket. When the casket hit the soft soil at the bottom of the hole, her round face bore a sadness that no one at the procession, not even her closest of kin can take away. One woman placed her hands gently on Miss Meela’s broad shoulders handing her a fresh tissue to soak up the tears from her swollen eyes.