Fidelia Ge 10/04/13

Honors English 10- Mr. Allen Period 1

First the objects.
And then the people.
Thats how memories usually occur to me.
Or at least, how I think they do.

I am in all truthfulness trying to be captivating about all these accounts, though most
people find themselves bored from my stories, no matter how trying my insistences.
Please, trust me. I most definitely can be captivating. I can be intriguing. Interesting. And
thosere only the Is. Just dont ask me to be introspective. Introspection has nothing to
do with me.

*** HERE IS A SMALL TIDBIT ***
Were boarding the train down memory lane.

First up is ice cream. Of the dangerously cold kind.
Some of you are probably thinking that ice cream cant be dangerous. How can it
be when it brings raw joy to seniors and children alike? Well, Im here to tell you that it
is. And itd be quite rash of you to convince me otherwise.
Yeah, it was dangerous.
I called him my stepfather. He told us he had just been dismissed from his job. It
was a sense of wretchedness crashing down on us. Just like how rain pours in buckets.
We were drenched in water, or in this case, drenched in uncertainty.
But it was okay because my mother still held her job. And my pseudo-stepfather
found another career. In selling ice cream.

*** ANOTHER HEADS UP ***
He shouldnt have died the way he did.

So he did pretty well in the summer.
He pushed his cart around schools and waited for the bell.
Crowds of children came running
There were them and their parents.
One stepfather.

Business went fine.

And then winter came. He was set on supporting the family through ice cream. So, he had
ended up near a school ten miles away from our home. And he was hungry. But there was
his ice cream. They reported that night as the coldest night of the winter.

His whole body shivered.
His eyes closed.
Ice cream was frozen to the stepfathers mouth.
*** CHARACTER OVERVIEW OF MY STEPFATHER ***
Cold.
Stiff.
Buried six feet under sheets of biting, blinding snow.

Next is a lunchbox. I cant say I embrace diversity when it comes to recollection triggers.
My grandfather brought me lunch that day. I was in the middle of science class
when he knocked on the door and came in. My teacher started yelling at him for
interrupting her lesson. Frustration permeating through the air. Red hot rage seeping
across the cracks on the floor.
The crowd of students did what students do.
They stilled and stared, transfixed at the scene in the middle of the room.
My grandfather remained shrouded in shame and worry with my lunchbox as the
clock ticked on. He left with my lunchbox and never caught my gaze.

*** RECURRING ACTIONS ***
Under no circumstances would he make or bring me lunch ever again.

The last time, I recall, had something to do with one really long sidewalk. My mother
was with me as we journeyed to the perceived end. But there was no end. In some places,
there were gaps where cement squares were supposed to be, but we knew they did not
mark the conclusion. As we trudged on, we could hear voices. Of laughter too, the
jingling and tinkling laughter, like bells and chimes in the wind, soon to falter.
Then, a barrier. A wall stretching left and right as far as the eye could see, made
of stones of different sizes and shapes, like puzzle pieces which did not belong.
Was it destiny?
Simple bad luck?
It wasnt as if we had a select destination in mind, so it wasnt misfortune, just
fate.
We walked back home. The voices part of the surreal landscape.

*** ON A PARTING NOTE ***
I lack the ability to differentiate between dreams and reality.

Fantasy appeals to me in that the non-truth is a given. Some things are best left
undiscovered, unexplained, unquestioned. Ill show you why.