She’d make pancakes for breakfast, or he’d fry up some sausage and eggs. Over the next few weeks, Allie, Alex, and I fell into quite a nice routine. This time, there were no other foster children and no other biological children. Cute, I thought.Īfter they exchanged the usual reams of paperwork, it was off in their Chevy Suburban to get situated into another new home. The bright fluorescent lights threatened to burn my skin as I walked towards a bouncy-looking lady with curly hair and a sweetly-smiling man. Didn’t she know I was pushing 15? This was the third home Nancy was placing me in - in a span of eight months. She took me by the hand and walked me into the lobby like a five-year old child. Instead of living in a comfortably loving home, the writer had to deal with the uncertainty of the foster system. The next short narrative essay takes a different approach. Dad will be with me every step of the way. Instead, I’ll hold tightly to these three ideals and write about Karaköy in Istanbul’s Beyoğlu district. I’m not sure why he had to leave during the single most poignant chapter in my life. I fought back the tears, got up to make a cup of peppermint tea, and added a new note to my iPhone titled, “Istanbul Packing List.” Then, I realized he’ll never answer my calls again. As soon as I read the email from my editor, I picked up my phone to call Dad. Next week, I’m off to Istanbul to explore their art scene. Maybe I can’t pick up the phone and call him anymore, but that doesn’t mean he’s gone. What can I do in those times? I can open up our suitcase of memories, pick out my favorite one, and dream about it, talk about it, or write about it. If I can’t make sound decisions with the tools already in my kit, then I risk falling for anything.įinally, memories are, perhaps, the only item that cannot be taken away from us. All I can glean from that is it’s time to look within myself and make proper assessments. With the loss of my father, I’ve also lost my sounding board. Being grateful to have someone to turn to for love and support is not the same as needing someone to turn to for love and support. At some point, we have to put on our “big girl pants” and be brave, even if we’re not.Īlso, there’s a difference between love and co-dependence. Neither can they walk into the Condé Nast office and nail a job interview for us. As much as our parents love and support us, they can’t go to our school and confess to the principal that we stole a candy bar from Sara. Here are three ideals I know he would’ve liked for me to embrace.įirst, you have to stand on your own two feet. Now that I’ve come out the other side, I realize Dad left me with a hefty stack of teachings. I felt as though the perfectly carpeted floors had dropped out from under me. When my phone rang, and it was Mom telling me Dad had a heart attack. Travel the world and write about its most colorful pockets. Every aspiring writer I’ve ever known secretly dreamt of an Anthony Bourdain lifestyle. I landed an internship at Condé Nast Traveler. I was sitting in my seemingly gilded cubicle, overlooking Manhattan, and pinching my right arm to make sure it was real. In this first essay example, we explore a lesson on dying:
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