“Chin up Adora,” mother would say, “there is no use sulking around and feeling sorry for yourself. You need to be strong.”
I still cherish her words, after all these years. I feel a salty tear slide down my cheek. Then another, and another. Back to reality, I thought. I focused my gaze on the grave in front of me. It was Mother’s grave. I gently placed the daffodils I had just picked in front of the large stone.
“Denise Arwell 1979-2011”
I sighed. Each and every time I visit the grave I read that sentence. And each and every time I expect something different, something hopeful. But of course it can never be like that. After all this graveyard is yet another reminder that my mother is dead.
“Adora, time to go!” Grandfather called. I glanced at the grave one last time before I wiped away my tears and walked in the direction of Grandfather’s voice. I found Grandfather in his wheelchair near the exit of the graveyard.
“Adora, can you please push me to the house, my arms are tired.” I nodded and wrapped my hands around the handles. He was easy to push, for he had lost weight over the years. His high blood pressure was also a concern, yet he is the only family I have left. So I did whatever I could to help him out. We arrived at our house, right across the street of the graveyard. I immediately went up to my room, for Grandfather wanted to rest.
“Adora do not give up, life takes lots of turns, but the road will wait for you,” Mother used to say. That was the last thing I heard from her, before she got in the crash. After that I stopped talking. Grandfather asks me to talk again. He claims my voice is one equivalent to an angel’s. But he has to say that, after all he is my grandfather. I walked over to my desk and opened the second drawer to the left. Inside I found my notebook labeled “Poetry.” I've written poetry since I was young, it’s a beautiful thing, really, expressing ourselves through words. Mother would always tell me to enter contests and such, but I don't see the point in that. My poems are for me, and me only. The thought of anybody else even trying to read my poems, sickens me. I sat down at my desk and opened my journal, allowing my hollow thoughts and pen to take over.
The air is cold, and my spirits are bitter.
I refuse to show myself so I hide in the shadows instead.
Time after time I hear her voice, but all I can do is hope to see her again.
She claims she's with me, but I don’t feel a thing.
And I really don’t know what this cold Winter will bring.
“Briiiiiing! Briiiiiing! My alarm clock went off signaling that it is time for school. I rolled out of bed and opened my closet. I threw on a white shirt, grey jumpsuit, and some Mary-Janes. I tied my hair up into a loose knot and went downstairs.
“Adora!” Grandfather called, “I made some muffins!”
I entered the kitchen and grabbed a muffin, then closed the back door behind me. I waited for the bus and when it came I hopped on without a word. The driver greeted me, but I just simply stared at the floor, which was covered in dirt and grime. It was about a fifteen minute drive to school, so I looked at pictures of flowers on my phone. I was planning to visit Mother’s grave again today after I went to the flower shop. This time I was thinking about getting orchids.
“Oooooh looks like Little Miss Silent has a Valentine,” a voice said, “Who would’ve thought! Honestly I’m wondering how she would even get a boy, considering she won’t even talk.” Must be Lorelai, I thought. She hated me in particular and I don’t know why. If I wanted to talk the first thing I’d say to her would be “Shut the heck up!” But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
I arrived at school, and shortly after our arrival I unpacked my things and placed them under my desk. For the first period we had STEM Lab. Today we were dissecting a sheep brain. I didn’t mind all the organs and guts, in fact I found it rather fascinating, so when I walked into the classroom and quickly took a seat.
“We went over the instructions as a class yesterday, so I’ve written the groups on the board. I numbered each table, so there is one for each group. When you have your groups you may begin!” Mrs. Whilby said.
I looked at the board and to my horror, Lorelai was in my group. I hung my head back in disappointment, this is the last thing I wanted. I trudged over to my station, dragging my feet behind me when I saw Lorelai digging through a bag. Wait, my bag! I ran over to the table right as she started flipping through a book, labeled “Poems.” I could feel anger boiling within me, as I tried to slap the book out of her hand.
“Nice try sweetie,” she said in a mocking voice.
I grasped a hand on her collar and tried to rip the book away. She grunted in rage and sent me one sharp kick in the shin. I groaned, as heads turned and chanted Lorelai’s name. I stood back up and pounded a fist on the desk. Pencils spilled from the cup and I could hear Mrs. Wilby dialing the office.
“Haha! And she won't even talk!” Lorelai screamed.
I could see her mouthing the words of my latest poem, and showing it to her friends. That’s when I let it all out, the years of suffering and anger.
“DROP IT RIGHT NOW!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, “JUST SHUT THE HECK UP!”