Personal Narrartive

A calm crisp breeze circled my body as I sat emerged in my thoughts, hopes, and memories. The rough bark on which I sat reminded me of the rough road many people have traveled, only to end with something no one in human form can contemplate.

“How can the complex working of the universe and the world around me end in such a simple catastrophe?” I wondered.

I sat back and let the sun bathe me in its bright, reminiscent light. The atmosphere around me was quiet, but just a few feet away people were mourning a great life. It was a life that some say was “lived to the longest and the fullest.” I ,on the other hand, held a solid disagreement. The “longest” couldn’t yet be over, could it? Seventy-five just seemed too short when I had only shared thirteen years with this fabulously, wonderful woman.

I stood up, as the loud vibrations of the church bells seem to touch my heart. I crossed the long, seemingly endless stream of soft healthy green grass to the black box, which lay just as I had left it in its own solitude. Inside of it lay the violin in which I had devoted a lot of my middle school life to. I had spent many hours practicing on this wooden contraption. Now all of my hard work, all of my hours practicing, would go into making this one piece sound amazing, spectacular, and memorable. This wasn’t something I was doing for myself. This was something I was doing for my family, friends, and most importantly the sweet, cherished soul of my dearly departed grandmother. I wanted there to be one last remarkable token of my love for someone who had made such a large impact on my life. I knew that my grandmother had absolutely loved the fact that I play a violin. She had always said that I held so much talent.

“This,” I thought, “will be something that she truly would have wanted.”

I opened the box and looked at the soft velvet casing. The freshly polished wood of my instrument glittered golden brown in the evening sun. I reached for it and picked it up. The usually very light instrument seemed to weigh more than I could ever remember. I walked in a straight line up the side of the church building. I passed the graves of many of the dead as I made my way to the door. For the first time ever I took the time to notice that many peoples’ grave held no flowers.

“How could someone just forget?” I contemplated.

Looking around, the church itself was rather small, I noticed. It was only one story. The outside was covered with some type of mid-sixties siding, or at least that is what it seemed. I finally made it around to the front door. This is when I realized there was a line a mile long out of the door. Many people had come from all over. I began to think how funny it is that you can go for years and years without seeing anyone, not talking to them, but as soon as they here you are dead, there they are. It seemed very ironic. I actually knew very few of the people that stood in front of me. It was as if my grandmother had known a whole society that I knew nothing about! I was walking to the door, when a plump lady came running out of the church. She ran to my side and quickly hurried me up the brick sidewalk. We pushed our way through the line of people.

When we finally made