English Standard Grade Practice

[Jenpot]

Ive been told to write an essay in any form of writing i want as long as it falls under one of the following headings:

'Peace' 'Tradition' 'Respect'

I chose Peace, and i was wondering what the overall opinion of this is.

( be honest..i need to know if im doing stuff wrong )

“Peace”

Silent snow stretched out in front of me for endless miles, and my frozen feet fell among empty spots dotted out in the white blanketed path. The sheer size of the graveyard dwarfed me and I felt lost among the fields of broken down stone and un-kept messy gardens. As I carefully walked through each grave, my feet crunched on some misplaced leaves, a sound which echoed effortlessly into nowhere. I glanced round; there wasn’t even anyone about to hear it - anyone alive at least.

Graveyards had always scared me. Ever since I was a child and my mum had taken me to visit her dad, I had been terrified of the thought of all those passed away, slowly decomposing under my flashy trainers. Even now walking along, 15 years old – the only difference is the footwear. It seems ironic that it was always my mum who took me here, and yet now I'm ‘visiting’ her.

She was always in such a hurry. Her whole life was a rush. I sometimes wonder if she ever took time just to think, or to stop and see what she had. Her name was Ellen, and she had passed away 6 months ago, dying in her sleep of cancer. I don’t think she would’ve chosen that. She liked things to be exciting, and to be dangerous, even with her condition. She would suggest things like bungee jumping, or diving, or going on a adventure trail in the safari at family events. My dad always assumed she was delusional, insane maybe. My mum wasn’t insane; she just didn’t want to grow up.

Her features were so sharp. She had shocking green eyes and I remember how when she smiled, they glazed over, and reminded me of ice cubes. They were deep in her small head, and she had a very dominant nose, jutting out at an awkward angle – making it the most prominent feature on her face. Her messy brown hair restated her claim for youth, often with childish clasps or ribbons tied in it. Also, my mum would wear the strangest clothes. Often I’d find her in front of the mirror, posing in a pair of flares from the seventies, a big checked paint splashed shirt and a pair of tennis shoes talking about how she was so grateful for the Oscar, because she needed a new doorstop. She reminded me of an over energetic circus clown – always full of tricks and surprises and never one to let a serious issue come before fun.

My mum had been a dancer when she was younger. She’d practiced for hours on end in her room, went to shows and performed for her pet rabbit James Dean. The ironic thing was as a child she couldn’t wait to grow up, and by the time she hit 45 people were starting to comment on how she needed to. At 16, she was sneaking into bars, and riding on motorbikes with boys she knew her parents wouldn’t approve of and skipping school. When she finally made it out of school and got secretarial work, she spent most of her time leading on delivery boys, and reading magazines in the toilets pretending she was sick. At weekends she’d rebel against her parents and dance angrily to Clash records at a small crowded punk-style club in the middle of the dangerous, broken down inner city area. That’s how she met my dad. It was a few years later, as she was turning 21 and they stumbled across each other during a debate about the ‘’Best Band of the Seventies’’, introduced with an argument and ending up with each others telephone numbers. They dated for a while, and on a wild whim after 4 months, got married in a tiny little church in Motherwell, without telling their parents.

Everything with my mother was like that. She was always doing the first thing on her mind without thinking. Even when the cancer was diagnosed, she STILL remained the way she was. She refused to receive treatment that would have side effects. When it came to the point she could no longer leave her bed, she entertained herself with a laptop given to her by us as a Christmas present. She learned how to use animation programs, and sent everyone she know little films of herself and her family, and the good times that were not to be forgotten. Most of all she was strong. I’ll always always remember how she held on, and never gave up hope.
I had reached her grave. I bent down, and sat myself in front of it, tucking my feet beneath me. It still looked brand new. The flowers I had brought with me seemed too bland for her - white lilies. Next time I’d remember to bring something a bit more lively. It still didn’t seem real. I kept expecting to hear her high and warm voice prompting me to ‘cheer up; everything dies’ in her blunt little way. I did miss her but I knew wherever she was, she was probably still the exact same person she’d always been and was still hopeful and even happier.

So what are my final words of contemplation?

She lived for the moment.

Her entire life was a splash of colour, full of shouting and anger and rebellion. Only now as she sleeps, is she finally at peace.

I walked out of the cemetery, pulling my scarf around my neck. The wind breezed past my shoulders, and leaves were swept across the ground, finally resting on the grave reciting:

'Beloved mother and wife,
Colourful, beautiful and forever strong,
Ellen 1957 – 2002.
Forever rest in much deserved peace.’