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PostSubject: stupid story   Tue Jan 19, 2010 8:23 am

Written for English... Had to do with a "gift". Smile It's long, so open the spoiler to read.

I am an only child. I almost got the chance to be a big sister to the cutest little girl on earth. She was my sister. I lost her. Her name was Megan, and through her and my family I learned one of the most valuable lessons of my life. This is her story.

August 13 is the most important day to me. My sister, Megan, was born. Dad had taken me to see her. Mom said she was a gift. I thought she was a great present, myself. Looking down on her sparked an emotion I’d never felt.

Her face was still crinkly and wrinkly like a newborn’s face should be. She was tiny, though, extremely tiny. I thought it added to her charm, almost like a puppy. It’s cute enough when it’s St. Bernard puppy, but make it a Chihuahua, and it’s even cuter. I couldn’t hold her yet; the doctors said she was born too early. She was still a little young.

My family left the hospital that night ate chocolate cigars, drank fizzy beverages. I went to bed late at night, clutching the knit mass of pink yarn that once was my baby blanket. Old and torn, my Grandma out in Florida made it for me almost ten years ago.

The next morning the phone rang. My dad answered it, and his muffled voice didn’t quite sound right. He knocked on my bedroom door.

“We’re not going to the hospital today.” His face was red and tears hesitantly dropped from his eyes like the first snowflakes of the year.

“Why?” I’m not sure why I asked, because I knew. Dad had said something about Megan not being as healthy as most little girls. My tears were like that blizzard that always comes in the middle of the winter, the kind of blizzard that stopped school and was the building blocks of igloos and snowmen.

Dad saw my tears and his tears followed. He hugged my, his hands painful yet supportive on my shoulders. He kissed the top of my head. Whispering, almost, he said, “You understand, about…”

I forced a squeaky “yes”. We couldn’t even say the two syllables we had named my sister. Dad wasn’t done, though.

“We have to move.” I nearly screamed. Two things were thrown at me in the same morning. My father grabbed me tighter. “I’m sorry, Laura. I can’t help it. We’ll be closer to Grandma.”

I looked up at this. His face looked blurry. I wiped my eyes and I realized why. At least there was a tiny bright side. Grandma was the best one to talk to in this kind of situation. Had mom told her yet?

Dad left my room muttering, “Stay strong,” and everything after went way too fast. We were to our new house before the end of August.

Everything seemed perfectly normal besides the huge black whirlpool that tore a hole in out family. Baby Megan was the only one who could bridge the gap. Mom and Dad told no one about losing her, even Grandma. To our new neighbors we were a big happy family. Mom, Dad and me, Laura. We almost were a normal family. Sometimes we would just burst into tears. We were one big, sad, pained, mourning family.

The hardest part came for me when I had to go to school in September. At home I could be sad all I wanted. At school crying was not so accepted. I didn’t want to lose any friends with my sob story.

The day came to go, sooner than later, and I was red as a lobster (and I wasn’t sunburned). A pipe was clogged in my mind and the only thing keeping me from exploding was the promise of Thanksgiving and Grandma.

When our worksheets were adorned with cartoon turkeys and Pilgrims, my mind was in desperate need of an unclogging. My teacher waved us all out, and I ran home.

Grandma was flying in that night. She was the kind of woman who had a bag with everything for any situation. Loose tooth? She’s got the tooth fairy in her suitcase. No sister? Well, we’d have to see about that.

The front door swung open as soon as we unlocked, and Grandma, being Grandma, rushed past us. She was holding a mass of lavender yarn. I interpreted it as a gift for my sister. Mom looked at me. She was unsure who to force to talk to Grandma. Her eyes gave it away. Nudging Dad, Mom’s eyes blinked, but stayed there. Tears flowed over her lower eyelid like a waterfall.

Dad grabbed Grandma by her shoulders, gently. He spoke so soft I doubted even Grandma could hear him. I felt my mom’s gentle hands on my lower back. I rested my head on her should. The whispering ended with Grandma motioning us over.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she said angrily. A second passed before Grandma added, much gentler, “But this is not reason to ruin Thanksgiving.” She invited herself to the kitchen a checked the turkey. That was Grandma’s way of comforting us. Maybe she lost her touch.

At dinner, my sister’s death never came up. Sometimes how Mom dealt with Grandma as her own mom stumped me. Other times I wished Grandma was my mom.

Two days passed, and school resumed. Grandma went back home. She made me think. She waited three months to see her grandchild only to find out she was gone. Why wasn’t I the same? Sure, I waited three times longer, but I also had three months to recuperate.

With that philosophy in mind, tears were less common. The worksheets in school were now about reindeer and cookies and presents. Grandma came in for Christmas. She looked different. I wasn’t sure if she was older of if I was older.

Once again we ate with no mention of Megan. After dinner came the best part of the holidays, the presents. Grandma tended not to wrap things.

On the couch, by the Christmas tree, Grandma sat staying at me. I never knew how many wrinkles she had. Maybe she had just gained them.

“I know you are said right now. I am too, Laura. You were very, very young when Grandpa passed away.”

I took that in. Grandpa had passed when I was a baby. Megan’s short life was the first times anyone close to me mad passed away.

“When Grandpa died, I was sad like you. But sometimes you need to realize that sadness isn’t the river, it’s the bridge. Sadness is a shaky bridge; you sometimes have to hold on tight. But Laura, the time comes when you’ve crossed the bridge. You should never turn back and try to fix your mistakes. Keep moving on with your life. You’ll meet more bridges of sadness, but you’ll never want to turn back and go over one again.” She grabbed me and hugged me so tight. “Are you over the Megan Bridge?”

I let one tear slip out of my eyes. “Yes.”

“Then let’s have a merry Christmas!” She grabbed the same mass of purple yarn from Thanksgiving and gave it to me. “It’s your postcard of the Megan Bridge.”

That night I fell asleep with my pink blanket, and Megan’s purple one. Megan was with me every night since.

Last edited by Sunny Baudelaire on Wed Feb 24, 2010 10:18 am; edited 1 time in total
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PostSubject: Re: stupid story   Wed Feb 24, 2010 10:06 am

sunnyyy. tres bien! i nit picked at a few things, but it's very well written and i love the introduction!
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