Friday, February 11, 2011

More than Precious

Here is a memoir i made for english, it's my most precious memory, hope you like it,

More than Precious

Have you ever received something precious, something you’ll always cherish; a gem, a piece
of jewelry, or a gift? I know what it’s like to have something you cherish. In my case it’s not an
object; but a memory.

Still and silent, not a sound vibrates through the air. It is as if the world is moving in slow
motion. As I lay in my bed of cocooned warmth I embrace the quiet. I peer through the lid
of my eyes and things slowly fall back into reality. I feel the warmth of the sun gently touch
my face and I smile; it’s a new day; a day to explore, a day to create, and a day to just be me.

I stretch feeling the crisp sheets under me move as I move. It’s the best feeling ever; half asleep and knowing that there is no school. I take a deep breath and I open my eyes fully as I look at the dolls and toys on the surfaces of the room around me. It’s my personal world, a place where I feel safe and comfortable. Suddenly, I hear a sound.

It’s the sound of pots and pans clanking in the kitchen. Smiling I bolt out of bed; dads up! I
break into a huge grin because dad plus kitchen noise equals one awesome weekend breakfast. I
quickly scramble out of bed and eagerly tip toe across my room towards the door. It’s as if my
room is an obstacle course. I dodge soft plushies, and books but I finally make it to the door.

Slowly I reach for the golden door handle and turn it ever so quietly; I don’t want anyone to
know I am awake. I push the door and let it swing open, cringing at the small squeak. But finally the door is open, and I am immediately hit with the smell of bacon and eggs. My mouth starts to
water. I can’t wait until it’s ready. My stomach starts to grumble as I tip toe down the
hallway towards the kitchen, wanting to see a breakfast in progress.

The kitchen door is already open, so I peek around the frame and look into the warm blue
coloured room. The room smells wonderfully of eggs, bacon, and toast, which I see spread out
all over the counter where my dad is cooking. As the eggs fall into the pan they sizzle to life.
He cooks with certainty and skill, and knows exactly what he’s doing. I jump a little as the
toaster pops into life unexpectedly. My dad turns towards the door and smiles. He waves at me to come forward into the kitchen, so I do.

My dad asks if I want to help. Of course I want to help, so I nod eagerly and I look up at my
dad as if to ask what I can do. He thinks for a moment and then smiles. The next thing I know, I am assigned the job of toast. He shows me how to put the thick Texas style toast into the little
white toaster and push down the handle. I learn quickly as I repeat his movements. I watch as the wires heat up and turn red in the toaster, just as I start getting bored; the toaster pops loudly!

My first task complete, I wonder what to do next. My dad then shows me how to scoop and
spread the butter on the toast. I make note of what he does and prepare to repeat it. I take my
silver knife and stick it into the butter and I take a big yellow clump. I then turn to my perfectly
toasted toast and I go to spread the butter like my dad has shown me. It’s not working. I try
again, but instead of the butter spreading nicely and evenly, it comes out clumpy and messy.
Frustrated, I throw the knife onto the brown counter top.

Then, my dad comes back towards the toast area. He must have noticed my anger because he
calmly tells me to pick up the knife again. Sighing I grab the knife with my left hand and grip it
tightly in frustration. My dad calmly takes my hand and slowly turns the knife so the blade faces downwards. He tells me to try again with the knife this way. I dip my knife into the butter and pull out another blob. I stare down towards my crispy toast. Here goes nothing! I spread the butter the way my dad showed me; blade down.

The knife smoothly spreads across the surface of the toast, gliding with ease; no clumps or
bumps this time! I did it! With the knife in hand I smile up at my dad who smiles right back.

This is what is precious, this is what I hold dear; a Memory. There will never be another like
it, I can never recreate it; it will be something that I’ll always cherish. Because when you lose
someone you hold dear, like I did my dad, every memory is more than precious.

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