My Personal Narrative

I desperately seeked to hear the tap-tap on our kitchen window, a sound all too familiar to me. From experience, I knew it would bring excitement and happiness, at that moment it was all I wanted, the sole thing worth waiting. Lying on my single bed, patience growing short, my ears tuned in the click of the front door being locked by my grandma, her quiet footsteps creeping to her room, followed by an awkwardly dead silence.

"How frustrating," I thought to myself, "now there's no way she'll let me answer the door."

A few impatient minutes ticked by as I started to feel myself slip into dreamland, my heavy eyelids closing against my will. Then it came, the soft rap against the small window, the sound I had given up on and thought had disappointed me beyond tears. Tripping over my sockless feet, the ground felt like ice, numbing my toes. My heart raced me to the front door, drowning out my grandma's feeble request to wait until the morning. Knees shaking, hands trembling, I felt as if I were walking out onto a stage being observed by thousands of people. It was the moment I'd been waiting for, finally here and little did I know, it would become one of my fondest memories.

Her flamboyant lion-like hair could be seen clear across any grocery store, her tomboyish air inspired me, and her name saturated with her personality. It truly frustrated me when I could only have her in minute doses at a time, it's not like I could've possibly over dosed, there were no risks.

The enjoyment I got from merely being in her presence was all I needed for survival. I'd be ignorant to say that I'm not sure why they're important, naturally as children we feel drawn to them, attached to their sides, inseparable. As a teenager, I feel I've changed from a dependant girl, to one with independence. No longer do I sit at the front door like an anxious puppy waiting for her caretaker to return home, peeing on the new carpet due to the overwhelming rush of excitement, begging for every last ounce of attention.

Realizing she won't be around forever, I regret my annoyance, frustration, and impatience I experience when around her. It's almost like I have it planned - the moment her keys clash to the counter top, and the thud of her shoes echoing in the kitchen I scurry to my sanctuary. How have I gone from craving her love to despising her presence? The cozy house I sleep soundly in, the home cooked meals that satisfy my hunger, and almost all necessities I have are provided by her. Lashing out, being a teenage rebel awakens my natural instinct to know I love her no matter what, how couldn't I? She's my mother.