I can still remember the smell of the sweet potato pie cooking in the oven, and the fifteen-gallon tub of icing by the sink. We called her Mary Jo, and I thought of her like a grandmother. Every year around fall, my mom and I went to her house to make sweatshirts for the season. When we did that, she made sweet potato pie every time. She knew that I didn’t like marshmallows on mine, so when I sat in the living room, I looked over and I saw her leave a spot with none on there. Mary Jo did cake decorating for a living, and that would explain the fifteen-gallon tub of icing.
I loved the icing because she made it homemade. I always peeked my little head around the corner making sure she didn’t see me, and I would take my finger for a quick dip in the icing. I’m sure she saw me, but just never said anything. In 1995, Mary Jo and her family decided to go to New York for the fourth of July. Something in my heart said she didn’t need to go.
She went to see one of her daughters and other family; I assumed everything would go fine. Ten years old sitting on my couch, with a white bear my Me maw gave me and watching t. v. with my parents, I suddenly got a feeling that something had happened. The phone rang, so my dad got up from watching Jay Leno to go answer it. Gloria, Mary Jo’s sister called.
I still remember exactly what my dad said to us, “Mary Jo died.” The look I saw on his face took my breath away. His eyes got red and filled up with tears. He rubbed his hand across his face and in his hair, overwhelmed by what had happened. My mom threw the book she had in her hand across the room.
The Term Paper on An Analysis of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein
Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley was born in London in 1797 to radical philosopher, William Godwin, and Mary Wollstonecraft, author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. Wollstonecraft died 11 days after giving birth, and young Mary was educated in the intellectual circles of her father’s contemporaries. In 1814, at the age of seventeen, Mary met and fell in love with poet, Percy Bysshe ...
She ran to the phone as fast as cloud to ground lighting. As she sat in the chair, her arm on the dining room table with her hands across her eyes, tears came pouring out like rain. I held my bear as tight as I could thinking this hadn’t happened, and my dad came to comfort me. At 11: 18 p. m. , July 4 th, 1995, my life changed forever.
No more sweet potato pie. No more fingers in the icing. I pop her favorite color firework on every Fourth of July. Gorgeous purple that arises to extraneous heights, and then falls to the ground like silent rain soothing the parched earth.
It’s the best that I can do. I could never repay her for everything she did for me. Her love felt as good as your toes in the sand at the beach, or swinging in the park on a fall night with every star in your sight. People don’t know when they won’t see someone they love again. Always tell loved ones how much meaning they have in your life before it’s too late.
” You gave of that, which you had to give. We learned to laugh, we learned to live. In my life, whatever it might be. I’ll never forget what you gave to me.” Javan.
