Narrative Essay【Mia】

 

　　　　　　　　The Broken Tree

    In an inorganic, monochrome, quiet world, there is a treasure chest of small, bricks. This is my home. My house has orange and green exterior walls on the upper half, while the lower half was made up of bricks of various shades of dark brown, ochre, and cream. Compared to other houses that have been increased in production, my house is different. It is a delicate, soft house, like something out of a fairy tale. The house is designed by my mother, an architect who loved eccentric things. The seemingly unmatched green and orange exterior of the house looks like a calm father and an energetic mother. The lower half of the house was covered with bricks, and a large window, that is my room. Readers cannot imagine how overprotective I was brought up by my parents. There is a tree in the garden that they planted when they moved in. She says she can't remember its name, but she looks after it carefully every day, and on the day she finds out that there are going to be huge typhoons, which happen several times a year, she always ties the trunk of the tree to the garden fence with rope. The tree grows bigger and bigger.

    My mother is a mighty weed next to the sunflowers in my garden. She is behind the scenes and is never good at being told to her that she is beautiful or smart. She just wants to make the people around her happy and doesn't need to stand out. Like a weed, once it is pulled out, it grows back again. No matter how envious people may be of sunflowers, she never tries to be one. That is fine with her.

　　　　　　　　　

      In my faint memories of my childhood, I recall balloons that were so inflated that the room was filled with the sweet smell of whipped cream and the smoky smell of crackers, and they were bursting at the seams. My mother often invited other friends to our house for parties. I was under the illusion that I had lots of friends. When she held the Halloween party, I was made to dress up as a Chinese ghost while other friends wore cute princess dresses, glass shoes, and pink tiaras over long, curled hair. I didn't even know what the costume was for, I just followed her. I just went along with her without any intention. I never really liked my mother like that. The fact that I was the daughter of a mother who loved eccentricity and new things made me stand out in an exclusive Japanese society. My black, flower-patterned school bag while other girls have red or pink ones. Black socks with green bonbons made to make it easier to take my pictures on sports days with lots of students. I am sure some people would have said bad things about her, and in fact, I was bullied at times.

　　　　　　　　　

      When I became a junior high school student, I was fed up with the half-hearted atmosphere of Chiba, which could neither be described as urban nor rural. I decided to go to junior high school in Tokyo. The school and senior high school were connected, so I spent the next six years there. At 6:00 am, on the train with the smell of alcohol and sweat wafting through the air, I go to school thinking I am not one of them. I was a fashionable girl in Chiba, but when I made friends in Tokyo, I felt like I was wearing rags. The smell of too-sweet perfume, snacks imported from abroad that I have never seen before, pouches made of leather with branded patterns printed on them. The girls who wear them without sarcasm have never and will never have to give up anything, I guessed.

     I found my own comfortable space in Tokyo and now I attend university there. I steadily became more independent, or at least I made it look like I was, in spite of my mother, who was never able to let go of me. My mother's thoughts cloaked me like vines in the garden. The cold and tiring society of Tokyo was stifling for me to live as my mother's child, a woman with the tendril of being unique. Whenever I consulted my mother about my future, I would see her frown as if she had eaten dried plums. She knows the cruelty of male society and recommends a career that would protect my life and myself like the house she has designed for me. I could be her, but I can't. A large tree stands in the garden. It is almost broken, but somehow it is still standing. Weak, insect-eaten, reddish leaves. Strong winds are blowing, but it is unlikely to break.