Personal Narrative-Oak Funeral
Good Bye?
“There we laid her to rest in a dark oak coffin in her final spot.” My Dad told me as I snuggled up in my fluffy pillows, trying to sleep, until I remembered… The dark oak coffin just like the wood of my bed frame. Being 13 years old never helped either, watching the coffin being lowered down into the grave and being covered with dirt was like being shot in the stomach. I will never forget that. Dad said, “We laid purple lilies, her favorite flowers, by her grave as we said our last goodbyes.” “Goodbye Mama, you kept yelling as we walked away. I half dragged you out of the cemetery. “
“But, but dad…” I said.
“I have told you before Mia, your mom died when she was in a car accident three years ago! The car was hit and caught
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I ran over to the door like a cheetah trying to catch its prey, only to find no one's there. I opened the door anyway to find a piece of paper addressed to, “Mia.” I stood there in disbelief with my mouth wide a gaping canyon. My mom's handwriting, I opened the letter and it read, “The one you love is very close so meet me at the trading post, remember Suzie.” My family calls the post office a trading post but when, which one, and who’s Suzie? I don’t know anyone named Suzie. I hurried to the trading post wondering about my many questions, not being able to answer a single one. The trading post was empty when I walked in. I just smiled and murmured, “Remember Suzie,” trying to figure out how to ask the clerk a question. He just smiled and handed me a piece of paper and another envelope, which had another …show more content…
Everyone was staring at me as if I was a lost puppy. I bolted out of the trading post, making the leaves dance in my wake as I ran down the street for two whole blocks before calming down enough to walk the rest of the way home to see if my dad had returned from work. Of course not, why would Dad be home from work, it's only 12:30 p.m.? He’s not done at work until 2:30 today. I thought to myself. Guess I’m going to the coffee shop alone. I walked towards the corner where the coffee shop was located. One more block left until I see
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Sex Criminals: A Narrative Analysis
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Personal Narrative Essay: Watching My Mother's Death
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