Essay About Family: Hot Mamas

I remember playing with my grandmother 's comb at the age of 4. I am ashamed when I was six years old, when my mother entered into a dimly living room. Her panty stockings are in the middle of my skinny legs; her eyes are wet and wide. I remember practicing choreography and figure skating during the fifth grade of elementary school. I remember that my father remembered hatred at dinner the evening, but he saw a tight hair of my short hair tangled around a tight ponytail on my head .

Years later, when I became a teenager, I asked my grandmother to memorize my memories, those empty medicine bottles and my mother to die. I sometimes wonder if I remember this memory because none of our family talked about it. No one is here. When I finally tried to talk to Grandma Pearl, she said, "Your mother is alive, she is still alive, this is what you need to know, child" Granny's word is I made my memory worse. I can get hurt at her face by seeing anger, part of me is afraid, if I ask my mother, she starts drinking again. Because I was a high school student, I am very happy that she stopped drinking. So I filled those memories until my mother died.

On the night of my mother's funeral, I went to bed at Brooklyn's apartment. I can not shake the picture of the picture of my cousin. I entered the closet and took out the white cotton blanket my mother sent me a few years ago. It was a hot night and the summer was very expensive. I put a blanket on my body. In the dark, I slowly pulled it slowly from the blanket, from the blanket, from my face, until covered with my mother, until completely covered with a blanket.

I am a boy from many mothers. According to family tradition, my father is a mother boy, my uncle is a mother boy, and my grandfather's mother boy is actually clinical. So, really, what choices can I make on this matter? When I was a child, I worshiped her so that people could have enough relationships of mother and child. But instead of apologizing for the mother of the Jewish mind to foster a child's religious beliefs, he will quickly cut his little finger. Noticing that she invented a person who believes what she said, my mother often told me a lie and told her the most deadly enemy: her age. From thirties to forty, she told me she was 27 years old. Her age is different