I started enjoy writing in 7th grade when my english teacher would let us write about things that we wanted to write like mythology or sports. Obviously we couldn’t do this when we were writing formal papers but whenever we had free time she would always let us write. One teacher who got me into poetry is my 8th grade english teacher Mr. Turney. He would give us poems to read then would go through all of the different aspects that made a poem so great. I remember one of the best poems I read was “Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle Received from a Friend Called Felicity” by John Tobias. This poem was such a amazing a descriptive poem that I could almost taste the watermelon and feel the warm summer sun. Lastly my mom and dad also got me into writing at a young age by keeping a journal. I would write down what I did that day or just whatever was on my mind.
The reason I chose to pick this piece is because it is the most emotional and relatable piece in my opinion I have ever written. This post was one of the hardest thing I have ever written. Knowing that my grandpa was dead and pouring all of my emotions into this piece is probably the most difficult thing I’ve ever wrote. Another reason I chose this is that I loved the way is structured my work. Those two words only sounds can be shot through the reader like a bullet.
It was a cold fall day. The trees were just starting to lose their levees only the sound of breathing was in my ear. I sat in my grandpas room. He just laid there and only breathed. That’s the only sound I can remember. One hour goes by it’s eight o’clock , More people start to show up. Its his birthday. Peter Rosko, my grandpa, my favorite fisherman, my favorite story teller, my favorite poker player. He had the most soothing voice in the world. Anything he said sounded as smooth as butter. We gather around him and say a prayer as we finish people start to leave the room and return home. They couldn’t take it. It was too much. Too much beeps, too much breathing, too much crying, too much prayers. Another hour passes, only the grand kids and daughters are there. Standing at his bed side holding his hand. It felt cold and rigid. The opposite of him. I give him a kiss on his sharp and prickly beard and make a promise to him that I will never forget him. My grandpa was such a die hard Lions fan and I couldn’t believe that he never got to see them win a Super Bowl. I would talk and talk with him for hours and hours about the Lions and how close they are to making the playoffs. Sounds start to engulf me. Beeps, rings, crying, sniffles, whispering, light footsteps, rain falling and hitting our window. We have pictures of our favorite memories with him. The fishing, the tubing, the late night poker playing, listening to his stories, staying up late and going bass fishing. More sounds, it’s only sounds. Nothing feels real, it’s all still a blur. Everyone had had enough. We gather our things and leave the room. As were driving back I can only remember the sound of rain hitting the windshield. We stay at my grandmas, her house always made me feel a bit better. I collapse on the couch, say a prayer, and fall asleep. Around three in the morning I hear more noises. Small noises but they sound so loud. I walk into the kitchen and see my grandma and mom sitting at the small kitchen table. Noises start again but it was voices this time. My mom says “Oh, Jonathan you should be in bed”. I say back to her raspy and in tears “What happened to grandpa?” My grandma says back to me “He died about a half hour ago, I’m so sorry”My ears ring and my heart drops down to my feet. I still remember my grandmas voice saying those ten words. Only the sounds, not the people, not the colors, not the smell, not the feelings. Only sounds.