narrative essay
English 101
Narrative Essay
In Death, You Live Forever
“Can you get me a glass of water?” my mother whispered in a hoarse voice. I nodded and quickly escaped the dimly lit bedroom to fetch my mother a glass of water from the kitchen. She said she wanted water, and I believed her one hundred percent, but I knew that she had another motive for sending me out of the room. She wanted to speak to her friend, Angelo, in private. I knew she would be talking to him about her condition, but that’s as much as I could conclude without her telling me directly, seeing as I was only five years old.
“Here you go,” I said softly, handing my mother her glass of water.
“Thank you,” she whispered in reply, her fragile, pale white hand unsteadily taking the glass from me. My mother was sick. She had pneumonia, a very severe case. Her immune system had already been weak for a long time, and was having a hard time fighting off the illness.
There were several loud knocks on our front door. Angelo opened the door and let in a series of paramedics carrying medical equipment of all types, the first two, rolling in a stretcher. This, I had not been expecting.
She waved the stretcher away and said she could walk. One of the paramedics and Angelo each had one of her arms draped around their neck as they helped her walk to the back of the ambulance that was waiting at the curb outside. Her faded, black, floral print night gown swayed slightly as she struggled to slowly move forward, one small step at a time. Her sickly pale skin, covered in sweat, glistened in the last rays of the setting sun.
That was the last time I saw my mother.
I don’t have very many memories of my short time spent with her, but one of my most fond memories is the first Christmas I remember having. My mom always made sure I had plenty of gifts on my birthdays and holidays.
I vaguely remember sitting cross legged on the light brown, shaggy carpet near a very green tree decorated with ornaments,
Narrative Essay
In Death, You Live Forever
“Can you get me a glass of water?” my mother whispered in a hoarse voice. I nodded and quickly escaped the dimly lit bedroom to fetch my mother a glass of water from the kitchen. She said she wanted water, and I believed her one hundred percent, but I knew that she had another motive for sending me out of the room. She wanted to speak to her friend, Angelo, in private. I knew she would be talking to him about her condition, but that’s as much as I could conclude without her telling me directly, seeing as I was only five years old.
“Here you go,” I said softly, handing my mother her glass of water.
“Thank you,” she whispered in reply, her fragile, pale white hand unsteadily taking the glass from me. My mother was sick. She had pneumonia, a very severe case. Her immune system had already been weak for a long time, and was having a hard time fighting off the illness.
There were several loud knocks on our front door. Angelo opened the door and let in a series of paramedics carrying medical equipment of all types, the first two, rolling in a stretcher. This, I had not been expecting.
She waved the stretcher away and said she could walk. One of the paramedics and Angelo each had one of her arms draped around their neck as they helped her walk to the back of the ambulance that was waiting at the curb outside. Her faded, black, floral print night gown swayed slightly as she struggled to slowly move forward, one small step at a time. Her sickly pale skin, covered in sweat, glistened in the last rays of the setting sun.
That was the last time I saw my mother.
I don’t have very many memories of my short time spent with her, but one of my most fond memories is the first Christmas I remember having. My mom always made sure I had plenty of gifts on my birthdays and holidays.
I vaguely remember sitting cross legged on the light brown, shaggy carpet near a very green tree decorated with ornaments,