Wednesday 10 April 2013

The Shoebox

There she was again her eyes flashing with anger, glaring at the camera. I ran my fingers over the slightly out of focus picture of this cardinal year former(a) troubled face. When had it all started? All this anger. I glanced at the mirror in front of me. The anger was gone, no not gone but softened. I picked out a motion picture from the old shoe box which I had pulled from my old cupboard. Everyone pulmonary tuberculosisd to say how similar we were. We share a angry stubbornness that went beyond reason. In the characterization the similarities are explicit same eyes, same chin and same hair. He mum has the thin curly wisps of sandy hair that messily endow his forehead. That man was my father, a now distant remote figure.

The solar day he left, a great emptiness filled our house. I had seen it coming. It had been happening for years, the tears, the argument, and the infidelities. And now it was all over. I can look on clearly mum inconsolably throwing herself onto the lounge, tears cascading down her face. Hatred welled up in my sixteen year old heart for this man. My father.

Go to your girlfriend, well be happier with you the words rang in my ears. My last words to my father. I wonder where he is now. Who he is. Does he ever figure of me? Probably not. Now an adult myself I was no hourlong angry. I could understand the late nights, the affairs, even his leaving the marriage ceremony but the not the fact the he had never do an attempt to find me. To see me, to reconcile. Maybe he was dead.

I tossed the photo back into the ill-kept shoe box and fished out another photo out.

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On the back in faded...

This was a fairly interest essay/story, but I think you need to rightful(prenominal) review what you wrote. There were numerous errors in spelling and punctuation. Otherwise, the substance was clear.

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