After the Bomb
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Extension1 After the Bomb Creative:
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As soon as I opened the door the stench of overcooked vegetables, overuse of hand sanitizers and urine overwhelms me. Most assume that I would be used to the smell by now, but one thing I can never adjust to is the odor of a nursing home. I check in at the front desk and make my way to room 108, to see my beloved father. Hearing the sound of the old wooden door creak he turns and greets me with the slightest hint of a smile, but even this is now hard work for him. The light glistens on the medals hanging off his chest and almost weighs him down as attempts sit up- but I rest my hand on his shoulder to stop him, and lay him back down.
“How are you pops?”
“Where’s Mary? Find Mary!” She’s dead. She died years ago, but he knows that.
“I said where is Mary?!” He’s suddenly gotten worse the past couple of days and I worry that his time is coming. Just the thought of this makes my eyes water as I bite my lower lip to prevent my tears from falling. I put my hand over his in regret of letting time pass, time that I did not spend in his presence. The hand that once appeared to me as big and manly now just appears to be a weak and fragile body part, but to me it is more than that. To me, it is a powerful symbol of bravery, determination and experience.
Tears rolling down my face, almost forming a puddle beneath me, I stand in complete stillness trying to perceive what is in front of me as the truth, as reality. The white cloth makes a silhouette of the face that I once looked up to for adventures. The nurse rubs my back trying to calm me down from the intense panic and trauma this situation is causing me, but it’s no help.
It has been hours now, since I’ve been weeping at his bedside. I eventually calm down and I open his drawers to collect the little possessions that he had, folding his clothes, packing away his photos and
Extension1 After the Bomb Creative:
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As soon as I opened the door the stench of overcooked vegetables, overuse of hand sanitizers and urine overwhelms me. Most assume that I would be used to the smell by now, but one thing I can never adjust to is the odor of a nursing home. I check in at the front desk and make my way to room 108, to see my beloved father. Hearing the sound of the old wooden door creak he turns and greets me with the slightest hint of a smile, but even this is now hard work for him. The light glistens on the medals hanging off his chest and almost weighs him down as attempts sit up- but I rest my hand on his shoulder to stop him, and lay him back down.
“How are you pops?”
“Where’s Mary? Find Mary!” She’s dead. She died years ago, but he knows that.
“I said where is Mary?!” He’s suddenly gotten worse the past couple of days and I worry that his time is coming. Just the thought of this makes my eyes water as I bite my lower lip to prevent my tears from falling. I put my hand over his in regret of letting time pass, time that I did not spend in his presence. The hand that once appeared to me as big and manly now just appears to be a weak and fragile body part, but to me it is more than that. To me, it is a powerful symbol of bravery, determination and experience.
Tears rolling down my face, almost forming a puddle beneath me, I stand in complete stillness trying to perceive what is in front of me as the truth, as reality. The white cloth makes a silhouette of the face that I once looked up to for adventures. The nurse rubs my back trying to calm me down from the intense panic and trauma this situation is causing me, but it’s no help.
It has been hours now, since I’ve been weeping at his bedside. I eventually calm down and I open his drawers to collect the little possessions that he had, folding his clothes, packing away his photos and