Do me a favor?
I'm trying to gather feedback on a potential college essay I wrote this week. If I decide to use it, it'll fit the personal statement/choose-your-own topic category. It's way too long, and I'm trying to shave it down.
Clouds hung like torn drapery over the cemetery. The sun smiled miserably through the haze. Gusts of wind moaned a dirge for the congregation. An uncomfortable silence, which had engulfed the lonely hill amongst ancient tombstones and tired, pale flowers, was punctured by a hacking cough. The priest's hands hugged his Bible like vines. After the fit ceased, he cleared his throat and spoke in a low baritone:
"We, the friends and family of the dear departed, gather here to mark a passing: the passing of Michael Patrick McSweeney, loving father and devoted friend."
There was a wail from the gathering. A haggard old woman, black gauze failing to shield her face from the pain, clutched her son's hand as tears streamed from her wrinkled eyes. Whispering quietly to her, the son looked up to the priest and nodded. The reverend cleared this throat a second time.
"Friends, we cannot honor Michael's passing with tears and regrets. Let us speak of his accomplishments, and thank the Lord that he has gone to a better place."
Raising his hand, the priest led a quiet hymn in sharp counterpoint with the wind. The psalm was haggard; voiced would break off periodically into fits of sobbing. Some could only murmur words they only half-recalled from Church. Others glanced at their watches.
"In Christ, our Lord," the reverend finished alone. He paused for a moment of reflection on the deceased, letting craggy lids close over tired eyes. One man in the crowd scratched his leg. Another's gaze followed a bird's fly-over. The moment passed, and the pastor continued.
"Now, Michael's son will speak to us," he said solemnly, stepping back. A tall man, dark-haired with the build of his father, walked slowly to the casket, placing a palm on the polished wood for a moment. He sighed and began to speak.
"My father tried to teach us the best he could. Growing up, he told us stories of his childhood, and other tales he learned along the way. He loved telling stories, and every bedtime was his time to shine. Dad would wrap us kids up in intricate plots of love and glory before we went to sleep. They were stories with a moral. I guess it was his way of giving advice. But, as I grew up, I stopped listening to his stories. My father continued to tell them, to whoever would listen. Mostly his grandchildren, who were in the same awe my siblings and I were in when we were that age. Now, when I think back to the stories he told us, I regret not having listened to him. Most of the stories I can recall are incomplete and not worth sharing. However, thankfully, I remembered one." The soon took a deep breath and peeked down at the small strip of paper cupped in his hand. Squinting, he tried to continue reading the indecipherable language someone had written. It was Greek to him. Lowering his hand, the son gazed at the flower-robed casket that his father lay in. He let the paper drop to the grass below and looked back to the congregation. Here we go, Dad.
"My father used to tell us the dreams he had as a child. They were his favorites; visions of the genius he claimed to have. Nightmares, passing images, epics: he had a story for each one. The nightmares, he said, were the most important dreams we could have. They built character. As a child he was plagued by a reoccurring dream of a large red bird. He would wake up, screaming, night after night. The bird came in a variety of incarnations, ranging from a human-like being to a giant bird head. Dad dreaded sleeping. He felt that he was helpless in the face of this subconscious terror. But one day, he said, he realized he needd to accept this bird, as everyone needed to accept the fear they would ultimately face. That night, the red bird reappeared. This time, it was different. As the beast swooped down to him, another, larger bird arrived. A white bird. My father said things got blurry at that point, but he remembered the red bird being chased off, and the white bird giving him a warm smile. A hopeful smile. Dad never dreamt of the red bird again."
"We need to face everything with determination: fear, the unknown, even death. I think my father knew exactly when his end was near. Like the red bird and the fear it represented, he accepted his fate. We all must accept our fate and our fears, whatever they may be. Dad did, and he died a happy man because of it." He stopped speaking and took his eyes away from the crowd. How was that, Dad?
Later, the son watched his father's casket lower gracefully into the burial plot. Smiling through tears, he imagined his father in that proverbial better place: standing on a mountaintop, telling his stories for the world to hear.
Any comments/suggestions would be amazing. Sorry for any spelling/grammar, I can't see well without my glasses/at 3:30 in the morning.
Clouds hung like torn drapery over the cemetery. The sun smiled miserably through the haze. Gusts of wind moaned a dirge for the congregation. An uncomfortable silence, which had engulfed the lonely hill amongst ancient tombstones and tired, pale flowers, was punctured by a hacking cough. The priest's hands hugged his Bible like vines. After the fit ceased, he cleared his throat and spoke in a low baritone:
"We, the friends and family of the dear departed, gather here to mark a passing: the passing of Michael Patrick McSweeney, loving father and devoted friend."
There was a wail from the gathering. A haggard old woman, black gauze failing to shield her face from the pain, clutched her son's hand as tears streamed from her wrinkled eyes. Whispering quietly to her, the son looked up to the priest and nodded. The reverend cleared this throat a second time.
"Friends, we cannot honor Michael's passing with tears and regrets. Let us speak of his accomplishments, and thank the Lord that he has gone to a better place."
Raising his hand, the priest led a quiet hymn in sharp counterpoint with the wind. The psalm was haggard; voiced would break off periodically into fits of sobbing. Some could only murmur words they only half-recalled from Church. Others glanced at their watches.
"In Christ, our Lord," the reverend finished alone. He paused for a moment of reflection on the deceased, letting craggy lids close over tired eyes. One man in the crowd scratched his leg. Another's gaze followed a bird's fly-over. The moment passed, and the pastor continued.
"Now, Michael's son will speak to us," he said solemnly, stepping back. A tall man, dark-haired with the build of his father, walked slowly to the casket, placing a palm on the polished wood for a moment. He sighed and began to speak.
"My father tried to teach us the best he could. Growing up, he told us stories of his childhood, and other tales he learned along the way. He loved telling stories, and every bedtime was his time to shine. Dad would wrap us kids up in intricate plots of love and glory before we went to sleep. They were stories with a moral. I guess it was his way of giving advice. But, as I grew up, I stopped listening to his stories. My father continued to tell them, to whoever would listen. Mostly his grandchildren, who were in the same awe my siblings and I were in when we were that age. Now, when I think back to the stories he told us, I regret not having listened to him. Most of the stories I can recall are incomplete and not worth sharing. However, thankfully, I remembered one." The soon took a deep breath and peeked down at the small strip of paper cupped in his hand. Squinting, he tried to continue reading the indecipherable language someone had written. It was Greek to him. Lowering his hand, the son gazed at the flower-robed casket that his father lay in. He let the paper drop to the grass below and looked back to the congregation. Here we go, Dad.
"My father used to tell us the dreams he had as a child. They were his favorites; visions of the genius he claimed to have. Nightmares, passing images, epics: he had a story for each one. The nightmares, he said, were the most important dreams we could have. They built character. As a child he was plagued by a reoccurring dream of a large red bird. He would wake up, screaming, night after night. The bird came in a variety of incarnations, ranging from a human-like being to a giant bird head. Dad dreaded sleeping. He felt that he was helpless in the face of this subconscious terror. But one day, he said, he realized he needd to accept this bird, as everyone needed to accept the fear they would ultimately face. That night, the red bird reappeared. This time, it was different. As the beast swooped down to him, another, larger bird arrived. A white bird. My father said things got blurry at that point, but he remembered the red bird being chased off, and the white bird giving him a warm smile. A hopeful smile. Dad never dreamt of the red bird again."
"We need to face everything with determination: fear, the unknown, even death. I think my father knew exactly when his end was near. Like the red bird and the fear it represented, he accepted his fate. We all must accept our fate and our fears, whatever they may be. Dad did, and he died a happy man because of it." He stopped speaking and took his eyes away from the crowd. How was that, Dad?
Later, the son watched his father's casket lower gracefully into the burial plot. Smiling through tears, he imagined his father in that proverbial better place: standing on a mountaintop, telling his stories for the world to hear.
Any comments/suggestions would be amazing. Sorry for any spelling/grammar, I can't see well without my glasses/at 3:30 in the morning.