Faryal Hussain   Final draft
ENC1101 8 am
July 24th 2010

To give is better than to receive

That evening when I came home to find my mother drenched in a bucket of salty tears, huddled in the corner of the bottom bunk, an immense uncertainty possessed me. Every tear drop of hers glared a shine of my face as I stood in awe observing how susceptible my mother had become. The smell of my grandmother’s favorite bottle of perfume, “Opium” lingered upon my mother. With a confused face I come to find my mother grasping on the bottle with dear life, as if it were the last she had of her own mother’s memory. The one support of my life, the strong root to my tree, the woman I’ve never seen so weak, was struggling to sit up right when I walked in. Her eyes were red as if hundreds and thousands of chili peppers were gulped down at one time, bloodshot with a feeling of terror and despicable thoughts accumulating in her head. You see, even in the hardest times of our lives, my mother always managed to bring everything together so that my life didn’t seem so different or peculiar compared to others. It turned out that my grandmother had passed away at the age of 68, a patient with a newly installed pace maker, died of a heart attack. The sound of her nose running and hiccups of tears trying to be held back screeched through her throat. The uncontrollable push of cries wanting to come out her was presented upon her face. My mother’s pleading cries just imitate what her heart felt inside. The emotion of feeling helpless surrounded my body, watching my own DNA, my own mother plop herself in the corner of a room, as an ostrich digs its head underground when feeling threatened. She clung on to my body like a child and trembled, “You have to become a surgeon so that people like your grandmother can have an opportunity to survive, so you can support yourself and your family to measures beyond food stamps and thrift shops.   So that you can be there when your...