The past should be left alone because it no longer exists. Yet, it is good that I still own my memories. Things I want to engrave, or the things I want to forget, will leave traces in my minds. Sometimes recollection is a joy. Memory is like putting together the puzzle pieces of previous experiences. I believe memory is the core of the soul — like the bulb in the light, without it the light cannot shine.
Thank god that my dear grandmother had a great impact on me even though she is gone and perhaps without the impression of her grandchild before she went to heaven. She was just an average woman, but a little inquisitive. She would easily trust people’s advice, and sympathize with someone’s bad life. I lived with my grandmother until I was 10. More than three thousand days’ company with her left me with many delightful memories. She was the closest person to me besides my parents.
I believe memories are worth being recalled. I remember those mornings in my childhood in which I practiced Qigong with my grandma and a group of old people. I imitated her movement — left, right, up, down — it was really fun. She was so amused at my antics. I believe memories are warm. My grandma sat on the bed and was knitting a sweater for me. I believe memories are reprise. I remember times that I was pulling her arms, asking for her help to wear my hair in a braid. I believe memories are vivid. I can still see the picture of her bringing back Chinese sweet potatoes for me from market and I saw it is still hot and looks tasty. I believe memories are rainbows, always showing up after our tears.
When my grandmother got old, it seemed as if an eraser existed in her mind, gradually sweeping away her memories. She did not remember my grandfather, her friends, her children and her granddaughter. It is a grief that she did not remember me. When I saw her, all I could do was to remind her that I was her granddaughter, but she would forget it very quickly. Her smile was still charming, like a 10-year-old child. She was always repeating my name and nodded when I told her.
I cried a lot when she was gone. I knew that I could not ask her to stay forever but she was already preserved in my memories.
Can you imagine how gorgeous memories are? Nothing can touch the past except for memories. I believe memories are also painful; nevertheless, they make us grow. I believe when memories are gone, we would become a newborn baby. I believe memories bring us every expression that humans have. I believe I will be happy as long as I have my memories.
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"American Childhood"by Anne Dillard is a good example of using chronological organization. In this story, Dillard tells a memory from her childhood one winter morning when she was 7 years old and got in trouble for throwing snowballs at cars, being chased down an ally by an adult.
Introduction: Dillard uses a frame story to explain the other characters, setting and scene. She explains that at 7, she was used to playing sports with boys and that taught her how to fling herself at something. She then finishes the introduction by telling the reader "I got in trouble throwing snowballs, and have seldom been happier since".
Body: In the body of the paper, Dillard tells the story chronologically, in the order that it happened:
- Waiting on the street with the boys in the snow.
- Watching the cars.
- Making iceballs.
- Throwing the iceball and having it hit the windshield of a car, breaking it.
- The car pulling over and stopping.
- A man getting out of the car and chasing them.
- The kids running for their lives.
- The man chasing her and Mikey around the neighborhood, block after block.
- The pounding and the straining of the chase.
- The man catching them when they could not get away.
- The man's frustration and "You stupid kids" speech.
Conclusion: Dillard returns to the idea that this was her supreme moment of happiness and says if the driver would have cut off their heads, she would have "died happy because nothing has required so much of me since as being chased all over Pittsburg in the middle of winter--running terrified, exhausted--by this sainted, skinny, furious redheaded man who wished to have a word with us." She ends the piece with an ironic comment "I don't know how he found his way back to his car."