Hi, would you be able to check my creative to make sure it flows well or suggest any areas of improvement, like tense or where to add more language features? Thank you so much
For the thirteenth year in a row, we sit in the same crowded restaurant for this occasion. One this day, thirteen years ago, we moved. A move that I could never forgive my parents about. A move across 16 473 km, across two continents and 21 hours of sitting in a plane. A move from Germany, to Australia. In the outer suburbs of Western Sydney, a place that now fulfills the purpose of “home” we celebrate this great opportunity. An opportunity i wish was left behind, never reached for and grasped with open arms. For i, do not belong. I belong where I was born, in my hometown, with my friends and relatives; not on the opposite half of the world. But, acceptant of my fate, i sit patiently, for the thirteenth year in a row picking at a the mounds of soft, mashed potato on my plate, which could easily be mounds of soft snow in my place of birth.
Returning to my Oma and Opa’s white clad house, i escaped to the spare room, one full of memorabilia from the golden times, the life I got taken away from, my upbringing and birthright country, Germany. Uncomfortably sitting in the corner, surrounded by boxes that have never been unpacked, piling like mountains, bringing back the memories of the mountainous ranges near my hometown. A suggestion from my younger brother Eric, to look through my mother's old photo albums presents a good case.
Sitting under the yellow incandescent light bulb in the cold, still room, black and white photographs bring back the memories of my mothers childhood, and stimulate a period of contemplation of my life if we had stayed in Germany. Where would I be now? What would I have achieved by now apart from moving house seven times and starting my third high school? Would life be different if I have had a stable environment to settle into? Flicking through the images protected by plastic, a progression through the years displays the transformation of y grandparents and mother through the decades, and the growth of me, throughout my childhood.
Amidst passing through the pleasant memories of my youth in Germany, a faded sepia book slip out of one of the piles of photo albums resting on my lap. My younger brother is quick to grab the newly rediscovered object. Clearly aged and cherished, Eric slowly examines the exterior of the item before revealing a thrilled expression on his face.
“Check this out”, he says, passing the carefully bound together parchment pieces. With a quick glance across the cover of the book, it reveals the faded remnants of a fountain pen ink, hiding ta name, CLAUDIA. Opening the yellowed page, the delicate writings of an ink pen alleviated the suspense in the room.
“Diary - personal and private contents of C.W. permission required”
Looking up to see my brothers face gleaming, it is clear that we have come across my mother's diary”
Flicking through the endless diary entries, black and white photographs and filed letters received during the early 80s reveal my mother in her teenage years, around the age of 18, as i myself am at the moment.
Calls from the adjoining rooms indicate it is time for us to leave. Scrambling to conceal the discovery, i hid the diary under my crinkled leather jacket, just as my mother bust into the room, the old floorboards creaking beneath her weight. As if my telepathic communication, my brother and i turn towards each other,, agreeing to keep our find a secret. The hurried goodbyes on a chilly october night allow me to conceal the item under my jacket safely too the car.
Continued throughout the silence of the night, as all is calm and no one is awake, i slide out the diary and continue to read from where i left off. Skimming through the pages with avidity, i am surprised to find pages filled up with lyrics of songs, letters sent from pen pals across Europe, photographs and diary entries encounting a teenage girl's life. A common theme, however, is present throughout all the lyrics and topics of conversation in the letters. Love.
I slowed as a particular poem in one entry’s caught my eye. Stuck onto the page, on a yellowed, coffee stained piece of paper, was a handwritten poem, one of distinctive font, my mother's font
“These feelings are crazy and all too confused
But that's how I feel when your heart’s been abused”
An unusual feeling in my heart brought the sudden realisation that i have felt similarly. The way that when we moved, all emotion had be torn from my body, leaving my friends and all connections behind, having to establish a new life, new foundations. All the emotions leaving me confused, as to how embrace the opportunity, yet i cannot forget what i have left behind. The words of the poem, resonating with my mind, it registers my mother has also had many difficulties inflicting her experiences growing up.
Struggling with my findings, I now know how my mother was so strong in assisting me and teaching me to be resilient through difficult times. She too, has faced many challenges and barriers to overcome, such have I, so I have to learn and appreciate the challenges to build strength. I now comprehend what has occurred, and appreciate my mother for all she has done for me.
Closing the diary, i feel content. At that moment i hear the handle only door open slowly as my mother enters the room. Suddenly she looks different. I smile and ask how her day was. Listening to her recount of events, i question what person i would be and what relationship i’d have with my mother if it weren't for our shared human experience about connection.
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Topic: Free AOS Creative Writing Marking! (Read 286079 times)