Please read my essay and comment critically :D
I jostled open the weather-stained wooden piece dissecting me from my congratulation gift, lingered briefly to absorb drizzles of Second Prize in National English Olympiad, then dived into an upsurge volume of joy striding me upstairs. Lounging on my bed was not Jun Lukas' "Vanilla Fingers" first edition or Wilton's 12 Icing Colors Set. Instead, it was our family heirloom, on which stuck a note "A weapon for tin soldiers."
I assumed Dad should know me better, at least better than the girls at Blossom dance class who told me I should rather be Captain Hook than a ballet dancer, than my cousin who greeted me as "clothes hanger" at every family meeting and, especially, my piano instructor whose dismissal scarred "the girl with deformed pinkies" for life from all those wonders that require pinky muscle. They have all been kind enough to remind me of my definition. I don't need a guitar, not mentioning its being so invaluable, as another one.
The gift should be returned, but later, as for now I and a pile of graded papers on Conditional Sentence need to be on the go. Every Saturday of the past four months as a Vitamin Smiler, parachuting on me from the most, indeed only, colorful room in Oncology Department would be twenty terrorists, aging from four to eleven, soon bulldozing verb tenses and freshly baked cookies out of me. And there's terrorist number 21 slowly rising from a corner-bent music sheet, her preoccupied hand relaxing on the cracked side of her guitar. It's Diem the monitor and her pre-class performance to alleviate the 5 p.m. injection fright.
- "The Long and Winding Road," she firmed her grasped of the instrument.
- "Revision number 50," I finished her sentence. Our eyes relished a brief conversation.
Number 21 over-injected veins started pumping twang and resounding strums. As her gleaming head started picking up the rhythms, I tiptoed involuntarily. Right before my eyes, I saw a 5th grader seemingly idler than her salubrious fellows, then a spirit ready to outgrow its delicate cistern, those counterpoints amalgamated into a reflection - a soldier. All my battles with macaron until those signature feet arose and with shaky handwriting for years through elementary and secondary schools, all to suffice my father's never-give-up tenet, came crashing in my mind. For an infinite moment, the song turned into our anthem of the unspoken.
Two hours having flown by unnoticeably, I doubted if it was Hanoi winter that hushed me home where Dad's representative of steadfastness still lied in complete docility. I felt its matte texture, which really helped blurring away my inner tension and sharpening a fresh image - Diem's fierce rebuttal against the nurse touching her guitar. My fingertips cautiously approach the metallic teeth but - immediately - pull back: E string proved itself as the thinnest and sharpest by leaving a visible bite into my little finger. Starting over with double-layer bandage, I force myself into a daily one hour practice. For the next month, bruise has built up and skin has peeled off incessantly. When callosities gradually emerge, I still cannot withstand two seconds of hammer-on and a one-fret slide will cut my finger deep. Though, a sense of unexpected fulfillment overwhelmed me. Just like Andersen's steadfast tin soldier who remains oddly single-legged, there are and there will be certain setbacks I and Diem will never be able to conquer or will definitely lose. Thankfully, our inefficiency is our best trustee, helping to peel off the irrelevant, allowing us to feast on the lessons learned, guiding us towards worthy pursuits and revealing the core of self.
Dear my weapon, I quit.
The thought of commanding you the masterpiece is alluring, but equally untruthful.
Dear dad, please acknowledge my sincerest thanks.
The hardships you bred have granted me enough braveness to give up on the beautiful suppositions that I am anything other than what I am. The guitar has been the best congratulation gift ever, and it has been worth more than the prize itself.
Its headstock, its neck and its body are perfectly tight-grained with signature red undertones of finest Tropical Mahogany and Indian Rosewood. Before securing the case, I carefully positioned a note. "Dear Diem, a weapon for tin soldiers. Fight!"
Hi, thank you for your response on my essay.
Now, about your essay I can't give you good advices because I'm really bad in essays, but I can tell you that I agree with Marzmarz, it is hard to follow except the part from "Dear my weapon, I quit." to """Dear Diem, a weapon for tin soldiers. Fight!"
Also, I really got lost when you mentioned about "terrorist number 21"
Sorry if I didn't help you.
