Grateful For You | Teen Ink

Grateful For You

September 26, 2014
By Rosie630 GOLD, Wilmington, Delaware
Rosie630 GOLD, Wilmington, Delaware
18 articles 0 photos 9 comments

Favorite Quote:
"The difference between ordinary and extraordinary is that little extra." ~Jimmy Johnson

Dusty autumn air blew across my frame and sent a shiver down my spine. I tugged my jacket closer to me, and shut the door to my '96 Mercury Sable. Leaves were finally turning; a myriad of greens, browns, orange and reds dappled the ground. I heaved a sigh and looked ahead of me. The small oak tree weaved its roots throughout the field, each year it grasping for more and more land, like a swimmer drowning in the depths of the water, clinging onto the waves that poured around him. I felt empathy for the tree. As I passed, I read over familiar names, ones that I had grown to know over time. My steps were soft against their placemats, almost as if each one of them were saying, “hello, welcome back”. I silently acknowledged each of them, but with my focus on a particular one. As I kept walking, old memories flooded my mind.
I kissed her goodbye, and picked up my book-bag from the driveway. The bus rounded the corner and was slowing to a stop in front of our house. As my sister also gathered her things, she chirped to us, “Have a good day, girls.” We grinned and scampered towards the bus, its oppressive doors gave way to our energetic footsteps and eager arms. Immediately we sat down in our normal booth and pressed our faces to the window and waved. She shakily waved back, for her hands didn’t trust her these days. We rolled up the street, and the bus soon became boisterous and spirited. We didn't turn away until she became just a silhouette, her hair blending with the decaying October foliage. A sneer, followed by rhythmic giggles caught my attention.
“Is that your mommy?” I perked up, and proudly replied,
“Yes.” The pimpled face smirked at my response and, glancing at everyone who watched him, chimed,
“She's a cripple!” My sister and I looked at each other in confusion. Everyone cackled and guffawed at his words, repeating the word “cripple” in such a fashion that made my back sweat. What were they talking about? I thought about my mom. Her beautiful green eyes sparkled, her short brunette hair shined. I loved her casseroles and Crock Pot meals. She always made really funny jokes, too. Why were they laughing at her, then? What made my mom different from everyone else's? Tears welled up in my eyes and I peeked at my sister. She was crying, too. No one knew our mom like we did; they would never understand. That evening, we told our mom what had happened. After that, she stopped waiting outside with us. Instead she watched us from the front door, perching in her wheelchair behind the glass. We waved from our window, and she always waved back from hers.
I approached the last row of stones, and felt my eyes sting. I knelt down in the grass that had become worn from my knees over time. Remembering her genuine smile, her tired body and her independent eyes, I clasped my hands together and whispered my prayer; “Rest easy, Mom... I always knew you were unlike any other mom, and that is more than I could ever ask for.”

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