His Spirit is Soaring Free :: Personal Narrative, Personal Essay

The cold, steel bars of the headboard pressed painfully into my back, and I could no longer feel my legs. Yet I sat motionless, his head solemn on my collarbone, afraid the slightest movement would disturb him. I softly kissed the small wisps of hair on top of his head as I cradled his frail, emaciated body. Every day spent with him was precious he would soon be gone. In those silent pre-dawn hours, the harsh lighting and sterile hospital scent out faded away as my mind wandered unrestrained, exploring unknown areas and probing into ideas which challenged my southerly upbringing, and returned with new knowledge which was to forever change my flavor. Woo, as everyone knew him, loved God, family and the outdoors. He was always daring, climbing to the highest branches of any tree. When he was five years old, he grabbed the manes of our untamed horses to hoist himself onto their backs for wild, frenzied rides. At the age of cabaret he began a love affair which was to last his entir e lifehe earned to hunt. His truck roaring into the driveway invariably interrupt the entire household. The children jockeyed for position as they ran to the door laughing and screaming. They knew he would work Tootsie Rolls and Hershey Kisses in his pockets. As soon as his tall, lanky frame fill up the doorway, strawberry blonde ringlets bouncing past his shoulders, they wrapped their little ordnance around his legs, forcing him to drag them into the room with him. He was always willing to capriole their favorite games, no matter how tired he was. One cute to wrestle his long, tapered fingers would dance across the childs ribs eliciting delighted squeals. Another precious to play Chin Music. Woos beard tickled as he blew raspberries on their cheeks and necks. some(prenominal) mornings at daybreak he stopped by for a transfuse of coffee and quiet conversation. He gestured animatedly when he talked sparkling color eyes belied the seriousness of any situation. Hung acros s his shoulder was the tattered, brown lookup pouch he refused to part with, his curls escaping the orange knit cap he always wore hunting. On those mornings he smelled of crisp, cold air and wild game. The morphia cocktails he was given on demand had stilled his work-callused hands and dulled his eyes.