wildcardheart
My brother has given me many things in our lives. I remember when he gave me the chicken pox, and when he supplied mushy peas (via the impromptu foodfight back when he was seven). I don't remember him giving his hugs easily, though.
She works at the newsstand, selling papers to the lonely, harried businesspeople. She notices the buses and trains leaving, taking them away to their offices and places of work. The station is always busy at the peak times: in the morning, when no one is truly awake, and when the afternoon slowly bleeds into evening, when people shuffle home.
It took her years, but she finally embraced the fact she was not perfect. She acknowledged her flaws and quirks, and, slowly but surely, let go of her quibbles. In doing so she found that she liked who she was.
I wouldn't say she was beloved by anyone in particular. She was liked by some, but most passed her by, absently registering her existence before promptly forgetting about her. She had unremarkable features which blurred a little at the edges, blended in quite nicely with everyone around her. Her personality was the same; inoffensive and quiet. There was no fanfare when she left, though she was fondly remembered by those who had liked her, in the end.
The only funeral I've ever been to ended with laughter. It was fairly sombre and quiet until, lo and behold, the speakers began to blast "Slice of Heaven" (aka New Zealand's second national anthem). I heard a horrible snort sound behind me; I later realised it was my cousin laughing really hard.
It's not easy to be a teacher. You first have to understand what you're teaching, and then be able to communicate it to another in a way so they will understand. You have to be patient, and committed, and caring; motivated and ready to motivate.
He notices her wearing the plaid shirt more than usual. It's red, with long sleeves and black buttons. The first time she wore it he'd remarked on it, noting he'd never seen it before. Now she wears it almost every day. It's a bit of a shock to the system as she never wears an outfit more than once. He soon associates the words "red" and "plaid" with her, and when he tells her this she gives him a faraway look, something he can't read (much to his frustration).
Chalkboards remind me of year nine - of one of the best teachers I ever had. He was hilarious, and always turned everything up to eleven. He was kind, and smart; he organised a trip to Melbourne for us. He used to go around dancing - and he broke the chalkboard in one of our classrooms. He didn't mean to - it was just too much for it to handle, I think, and now there's a hole in the chalkboard.
I used to hate the radio. In the morning you have people talking when all you really want to do is listen to music. On the drive home in the afternoon you have more people talking - they think they are the bees knees, but they aren't even entertaining. There are endless ads, even on the stations that claim to never have more than two ads in a row.
When choosing transport for our senior formal, Kayla didn't pick the usual limo. She bypassed the fancy old cars, the Mustang, the motorcycles and the obscenely large stretch hummer. She was quite set on using her grandfather's old Ford Falcon; if he wasn't going to be there to share in the memories, she'd have to make her own and remember for the both of them.
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