I miss my father to this day. Like a dull ache that flares from time to time at odd moments, it catches me unaware at my most vulnerable or inconvenient. There is still a part of me that misses him and his memory, though it is only for the wistful dream of what I had never had from him. The memories are semblances of what I had caught fleeting glimpses of in him, but they recur just often enough to leave me perpetually hungry for more of his better than his worse. There is a small part of me that lights up with hope whenever I see the figure of a stout, middle-aged Bangladeshi man on the street, but as the translucent outline of my father fades away, shame pervades it. Because although I miss my father with every bone in my body, I could never say it aloud. I could never admit that I miss the man who bruised my mother's face, fractured my left wrist, and bloodied my sister's gums in numerous different violent rages. Though it was I who had called 911 that night the police took him away, I still feel a dull, poignant ache whenever I think of him; I miss the man who used to make omelets every Saturday morning and push me on the swings, the man who used to affectionately call me his "little egg." I know I will always be hungry for more of his better than his worse, reveling in the wistful dreams of what I had never had from him. My mother simply believes that I'm cold and unfeeling for calling the police that night; "He was still your father," she will say in an accusatory tone every so often. The first time the words spilled out of her mouth, I stood still and quietly felt the inner doubt and uncertainty of just what to do or say creeping up my spine in a familiarly horrible way. The guilt of reporting my father plagued perilously me at first, but I soon come to realize that I should not be made to feel guilty for my actions. My mother sees me as the "bad guy," but I do not mind; I aspire to make her proud of me. I am determined to succeed in life and know that the decision I made that night has helped to define my motivations and my values. Each day, I feel the emotional and financial repercussions of reporting my father, but I do not regret finally reporting the ten long years of escalating domestic violence I experienced; I do not regret protecting my mother from my father. The consequences bear heavy on my shoulders, but through the trials and tribulations I've faced in life, I've come to believe that I have a predominating sense of moral and ethical righteousness. I am determined to take a proactive approach to improve my life as well as the lives of others, even if my efforts go unappreciated.
Great job, tmiplease!
Here is an example of an essay that would benefit from a first sentence-ectomy:
I miss my father to this day.
Look at how beautiful and mysterious your writing is when you leave out a detail:
Like a dull ache that flares from time to time at odd moments, it catches me unaware at my most vulnerable or inconvenient. There is still a part of me that misses him and his memory, though it is only f...---------inconvenient does not seem to fit, but I like it anyway! I know what you mean, but... it is not YOU that is inconvenient. Still, I think that sentence is okay.
As i continue to read, I am so impressed...
...in numerous different violent rages.
The consequences bear heavy rest heavily on my shoulders, but ...
You are so great... even if there is suffering, take consolation from the fact that your life will be full and meaningful. Your talent with language ensures that. We think in language, so wordsmiths like you are in for a powerful experience during each trip!
:-)
