The Burial of My Mother Essay -- Personal Narrative, essay about my fa

The phone rang early the morning of July 21, 2013. It was a call from my brother-in-law telling me the parole of my mothers death. The news came as no surprise. She was diagnosed with terminal cancer in May of 2013, and her death had been expected. I had been trying to prepare myself for this mean solar day ever since I had heard the diagnosis. at one time I awoke, I packed and started the journey home from State University, where I had been staying with friends while attending a business seminar. I had spent three age at State University and had made this drive home often. This time, however, everything seemed different. All the trees seemed brighter, more colorful, and more full of life. Maybe when one thing has died, it adds life to something else. Could this be the intrinsic order of things? In just those few moments, I felt my life change. I suddenly realized that I could no longer be a child. Not more than twenty minutes into my drive, I found myself suddenly ove rcome by reality, and grief became my driving companion. There was a song on the radio that stirred all my emotions into nervous gumbo. I felt everything from anger to happiness, from betrayal to fortunate. As I continued, I started to see my life unfold in front of me in a thousand different ways. This was a pivotal point in my life, and what I did now would affect the rest of my life. Could I til now have a life after this? The questions I asked my God and myself that day are too many to count. This was pure emotional trauma, and at the age of twenty-one, I was not ready to handle this life on my own. The drive took me through the home of my youth. As I arrived in McCormick, I saw all the known sights. My mind started to drift back to when everything w... ... I hate this tradition. Why would anybody want to throw a party in your honor on the one day they know you cannot make it? I attended just to see what would happen. We ate a lot, and everyone told us how sorry they were. As I looked at them and at us, I realized people really do not handle death well. We as a society need to come up with a best(p) set of rules to follow when it comes to funerals. Years have passed since I watched the burial of my mother. The only physical contact I have now is the occasional trip to the heavy site, and the only reason I go is to do ground maintenance. Pulling weeds and placing flowers on the grave is a family duty. Even after you die, it is necessary that you present a good image, and I feel a responsibility to my mother and her memory. It is still important to me that I live the type of life that would make her proud.