Based on a true story – Written by Symon T. Taylor
11 years old – Life seems so simple, let’s take it away Uncle Tom.
I had a next door neighbor, English by nature, and full of heart. His name was Tom, known him all my life; he was like a grandfather to me. I never really had a grandfather; my grandpa on my dad’s side died when I was only 1 year old, and my grandpa on my mum’s side abandoned the family after giving my grandma 10 children. My Uncle Tom took the grandfather roll in my life, that’s how I looked up to him even though he was not part of the family. But we treated him like it.
I remember, during the day, I would run over to his house next door and feed his goldfish in the pond he had. After that, we would re-fill his seed basket for the local parrots and cockatoos to feast upon. I liked seeing the birds fly down upon his hands, he looked like a King of nature to me.
He respected nature, you could tell by the size of his garden; it was like a forest. I remember I had a little sanctuary in their backyard, between two willow trees. The little branches and twigs came together to form a sort of a cave between the leaves; very magical.
At age 8, it was two years since we last saw Uncle Tom; two years since we moved to our new home. Dad received a call from Tom’s wife, Mavis. Uncle Tom was in hospital with Leukemia. My dad told the family and I, and made plans to go visit him the next day.
I remember that morning. I remember every single detail of it. How could I forget?
I woke up extra early, rearing with excitement. I could see my Uncle Tom once again! I ran into my brother’s room to get him up. He got up straight away. Together we stormed into our parent’s room and jumped into their bed. We shook our parents saying “Get up! Get up! Gonna see Uncle Tom today!”
The despair in their eyes confused us. Mum cuddled my brother and my dad cuddled me. Both my brother and I were in the middle, waiting for a response… Dad told us that Uncle Tom had passed away through the night. He told us he couldn’t hold on any longer.
I cried a river that mourning, and the rest of the day was clouded. It was because of the fact that we had failed to see them in so long, and they meant something so important. Even though he cannot hear me now…. Goodbye Uncle Tom…
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Living death – life’s accounts
Based on a true story – Written by Symon T. Taylor
4 years old -Life seemed pretty vague at that age, but I can still remember the drive; my parents filled the rest. My brother was 2 years old at the time.
It was a Sunday, bright, cool, with a warm summer’s tinge. It was a Sunday, where my dad would drive my brother and me to Clayton where we would usually take a stroll. It was a Sunday when my father was exiled from the family.
My father has two sisters and two brothers and out of all of the siblings, one of my dad’s brothers (my uncle) and he found high paying jobs when they came to Australia; all the rest were given a small percentage of their earnings. My father worked in an office for a large shipping company, and my uncle worked in real-estate. The money they gave to the family was a considerable amount. But was that enough? No it wasn’t, according to them. I remember that Sunday, all those years ago. How could I forget?
We had returned into the car, after our mid-day stroll in Clayton, until I had realized we were going somewhere. There! I saw it! My auntie’s house on the corner street. I un-buckled my seat-belt, but once my father heard the click; he demanded I stayed in the car with my baby brother. I did.
Seconds turned to minutes; minutes turned to quarters until I saw my father walk outside callously. My uncle tried to hold him back, but a shove put him back in this place. I looked outside the window, and saw my father’s side of the family looking at my father in disgrace, in hatred, in greed. All but one, my uncle in real-estate.
It was a Sunday when my father, my mother, my brother and I were exiled from the family. None of them keep in contact with us, all except my uncle, the only one who had sympathy for my father, or rather his brother. Money over family, can family buy money? I could never understand why this happened at a young age, but as I came to understand how the world works… All I knew was falling...
4 years old -Life seemed pretty vague at that age, but I can still remember the drive; my parents filled the rest. My brother was 2 years old at the time.
It was a Sunday, bright, cool, with a warm summer’s tinge. It was a Sunday, where my dad would drive my brother and me to Clayton where we would usually take a stroll. It was a Sunday when my father was exiled from the family.
My father has two sisters and two brothers and out of all of the siblings, one of my dad’s brothers (my uncle) and he found high paying jobs when they came to Australia; all the rest were given a small percentage of their earnings. My father worked in an office for a large shipping company, and my uncle worked in real-estate. The money they gave to the family was a considerable amount. But was that enough? No it wasn’t, according to them. I remember that Sunday, all those years ago. How could I forget?
We had returned into the car, after our mid-day stroll in Clayton, until I had realized we were going somewhere. There! I saw it! My auntie’s house on the corner street. I un-buckled my seat-belt, but once my father heard the click; he demanded I stayed in the car with my baby brother. I did.
Seconds turned to minutes; minutes turned to quarters until I saw my father walk outside callously. My uncle tried to hold him back, but a shove put him back in this place. I looked outside the window, and saw my father’s side of the family looking at my father in disgrace, in hatred, in greed. All but one, my uncle in real-estate.
It was a Sunday when my father, my mother, my brother and I were exiled from the family. None of them keep in contact with us, all except my uncle, the only one who had sympathy for my father, or rather his brother. Money over family, can family buy money? I could never understand why this happened at a young age, but as I came to understand how the world works… All I knew was falling...
Friday, November 13, 2009
Living death – life’s accounts.
Based on a true story – Written by Symon T. Taylor
1 year old – Teddy-Bear Nathan, Grandpa’s soul. A story provided by my father and my mother.
All was simple at the age, especially my inquisitive mind. At this age I could already escape my cot, and roam free throughout my house. Not this night though; on this night, I, the little one was asleep, safe in my cot.
On the other side of the house, my parents were watching TV, and next to that room was the toy room. On top of the toy box sat a little teddy-bear; I had named him Nathan, because it sounded like my name, and because it was a special bear. Nathan was a bear like no other bear, he could talk. If you squeezed his hand, Nathan would say “…this is my hand…” or if you squeezed his foot he would say “…this is my foot…” and so on and so forth. This bear was given to me by my grandfather on my dad’s side of the family. Strangely enough, the night I speak of was the night my grandfather died.
While my parents were watching TV, they were disturbed by the sound of Nathan’s voice. In the next room, they could hear the muttered words – “These are my eyes, these are my ears.” This was paranormal, for usually you would have to wait a while after Nathan would say something, to make him say another. But on this night, Nathan said both, one straight after another.
My parents were freaked out, so they ran straight into my room to see if I had played with Nathan. I wasn’t. There in my cot I was; untouched and undisturbed, just how my parents left me. They walked into the play room, and saw Nathan sitting on top of the toy-box; with its little teddy-bear grin.
To this day my parents think that was my grandfather’s ghost giving us his last advice, but I never really understood what he was trying to tell us. That was only until it hit me, one day in my backyard.
I kept repeating those lines in my head: “These are my eyes, these are my ears.” My mind became blank in confusion so I fell on my back, in the grass, and shut my eyes.
I could hear the rustling of the leaves on the trees; I could hear the rubber on the tarmac. I could hear the birds screech by, and the children play across the court. This is what my grandpa meant.
We can see more with our eyes closed…
1 year old – Teddy-Bear Nathan, Grandpa’s soul. A story provided by my father and my mother.
All was simple at the age, especially my inquisitive mind. At this age I could already escape my cot, and roam free throughout my house. Not this night though; on this night, I, the little one was asleep, safe in my cot.
On the other side of the house, my parents were watching TV, and next to that room was the toy room. On top of the toy box sat a little teddy-bear; I had named him Nathan, because it sounded like my name, and because it was a special bear. Nathan was a bear like no other bear, he could talk. If you squeezed his hand, Nathan would say “…this is my hand…” or if you squeezed his foot he would say “…this is my foot…” and so on and so forth. This bear was given to me by my grandfather on my dad’s side of the family. Strangely enough, the night I speak of was the night my grandfather died.
While my parents were watching TV, they were disturbed by the sound of Nathan’s voice. In the next room, they could hear the muttered words – “These are my eyes, these are my ears.” This was paranormal, for usually you would have to wait a while after Nathan would say something, to make him say another. But on this night, Nathan said both, one straight after another.
My parents were freaked out, so they ran straight into my room to see if I had played with Nathan. I wasn’t. There in my cot I was; untouched and undisturbed, just how my parents left me. They walked into the play room, and saw Nathan sitting on top of the toy-box; with its little teddy-bear grin.
To this day my parents think that was my grandfather’s ghost giving us his last advice, but I never really understood what he was trying to tell us. That was only until it hit me, one day in my backyard.
I kept repeating those lines in my head: “These are my eyes, these are my ears.” My mind became blank in confusion so I fell on my back, in the grass, and shut my eyes.
I could hear the rustling of the leaves on the trees; I could hear the rubber on the tarmac. I could hear the birds screech by, and the children play across the court. This is what my grandpa meant.
We can see more with our eyes closed…
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