Hello! This is my first post in this site, and I'm so glad that EssayForum exists. I've been having so many problems with my essays, and I realized that feedback may be the solution.
This is an essay meant to address Princeton University's essay question: "Tell us about a person who has influenced you in a significant way." It can be about 500 words. Any suggestion would be greatly appreciated, and thank you wholeheartedly!
My Ophelia lives off eight medications and has fake dentures. Under a cloud of ash-gray hair, her eyes shine on a canvas of wrinkles and liver spots. Her back is bent, shoulders weighed down by ghosts of her past. She was a wife at age fifteen, a mother of seven, and now, a brooding widow. When she is alone, she mutters soliloquys, weeping for her Hamlet, Death. In each bizarre question she asks, she curses herself for still existing. Though I tired of her incessant mourning, I feared for her safety. I feared that she was sinking in dark waters and ready to take her own life.
Grandma's haven is the tiny vegetable garden of lettuce, peppers, cucumbers, and shrubs. Point to any stalk, and she can tell you its history, although she can't recall the events of yesterday. In each vine and leaf was a drop of her sweat and blood.
From the local shop, I bought Grandma vivid roses, carnations, and tulips of all colors. In these moments, her wizened face became youthfully brilliant, and she would wrap her thin arms around me in an embrace. The flower would be immediately planted amongst the vegetables. Week after week, I bought flower after flower, craving that smile on her face. That smile was the symbol of her sanity, the sign that indicated she could still feel happiness. Buying flowers became a mission, a desperate undertaking to appease the unstable Ophelia. I feared that if I didn't, she would turn towards the dark waters once more.
But I reached a horrible epiphany: flowers died, just like humans.
I once saw Grandma standing over the drooping heads of roses in the trashcan. Her face was haggard, older. "They died," she said simply, before hobbling away silently.
Such material things could never make her happy. In my fervent quest to secure the maiden's happiness, I had shamefully replaced human contact with objects.
Instead of spending time buying flowers, I spent time with Grandma. With the little Korean I knew, I told her stories of my school days. She told me her tragedies, wishes and secrets she had cradled in her tortured mind. With each word, I learned who Grandma really was. Under her aged exterior and mask of sorrow was a young, brave woman, a resilient rose among ivy. For the first time, we truly opened up to each other, and I've never seen her smile so genuinely. At the end of each conversation, I would sit beside her and plant, not flowers, but kisses on her cheek. She would respond with a smile with a brightness that trumped the sun's.
Grandma taught me that the best flowers are not ones you can buy. They are empathy, love, and understanding. Once sown, they can brave the worst of storms. With words and presence, I protected Ophelia from the river's waters, and created a garden of the blossoms of our little, cherished moments together.
This is an essay meant to address Princeton University's essay question: "Tell us about a person who has influenced you in a significant way." It can be about 500 words. Any suggestion would be greatly appreciated, and thank you wholeheartedly!
My Ophelia lives off eight medications and has fake dentures. Under a cloud of ash-gray hair, her eyes shine on a canvas of wrinkles and liver spots. Her back is bent, shoulders weighed down by ghosts of her past. She was a wife at age fifteen, a mother of seven, and now, a brooding widow. When she is alone, she mutters soliloquys, weeping for her Hamlet, Death. In each bizarre question she asks, she curses herself for still existing. Though I tired of her incessant mourning, I feared for her safety. I feared that she was sinking in dark waters and ready to take her own life.
Grandma's haven is the tiny vegetable garden of lettuce, peppers, cucumbers, and shrubs. Point to any stalk, and she can tell you its history, although she can't recall the events of yesterday. In each vine and leaf was a drop of her sweat and blood.
From the local shop, I bought Grandma vivid roses, carnations, and tulips of all colors. In these moments, her wizened face became youthfully brilliant, and she would wrap her thin arms around me in an embrace. The flower would be immediately planted amongst the vegetables. Week after week, I bought flower after flower, craving that smile on her face. That smile was the symbol of her sanity, the sign that indicated she could still feel happiness. Buying flowers became a mission, a desperate undertaking to appease the unstable Ophelia. I feared that if I didn't, she would turn towards the dark waters once more.
But I reached a horrible epiphany: flowers died, just like humans.
I once saw Grandma standing over the drooping heads of roses in the trashcan. Her face was haggard, older. "They died," she said simply, before hobbling away silently.
Such material things could never make her happy. In my fervent quest to secure the maiden's happiness, I had shamefully replaced human contact with objects.
Instead of spending time buying flowers, I spent time with Grandma. With the little Korean I knew, I told her stories of my school days. She told me her tragedies, wishes and secrets she had cradled in her tortured mind. With each word, I learned who Grandma really was. Under her aged exterior and mask of sorrow was a young, brave woman, a resilient rose among ivy. For the first time, we truly opened up to each other, and I've never seen her smile so genuinely. At the end of each conversation, I would sit beside her and plant, not flowers, but kisses on her cheek. She would respond with a smile with a brightness that trumped the sun's.
Grandma taught me that the best flowers are not ones you can buy. They are empathy, love, and understanding. Once sown, they can brave the worst of storms. With words and presence, I protected Ophelia from the river's waters, and created a garden of the blossoms of our little, cherished moments together.