I have a clear recollection of wolfing down a carton of yogurt, then pausing over an open box of cereal and wondering if Sister Harris and Sister Jensen would be shocked if I skipped the bowl and just poured the granola straight down my throat.
More Personal Voice Features
Our neighbors’ dog, Rosie, didn’t like cats. In fact, she wasn’t too fond of many things. She had killed more than one batch of our kittens and at least a dozen of our chickens. She came snarling at us when we walked by, and I wasn’t sure she wouldn’t attack us if she had a chance.
The doctor took a deep breath before sharing the unwelcome news. “I’m afraid that if you want to save her vision in the one eye, she will have to have surgery.” I looked at my sweet little daughter, Trissa, sitting so bravely on the big white bed, and my heart ached. We had tried everything to avoid this, but to no avail.
My mother is now ninety-one years old, and her life of long days of work is still ingrained into her. I grew up on a dairy farm, and at its peak we were milking one hundred and twenty cows. We had to be up by around five o'clock to get the cows milked and fed. My mother was up before we were to make breakfast.
This last week we were talking about Independence Day in my classes when the conversation took a direction I didn’t expect. Most of the class was chattering about fireworks, parades, cookouts, and a day off from class. But Tony sat quietly, saying nothing.