Autobio 400 words

White. A blank space.

When I was born my parents decided to sponge paint my room. Pink, purple, blue, and green in soft pastels swirled around my childhood.

When I was 5 years old, my family moved into a new house. My room was painted light pink, so light pink that in certain sunshiny afternoons, it looked white. My mom loved it, I didn’t.

Sometime, between the ages of 5-10, my nanny, Joanne, painted flowers on my wall. It was my own personal garden, which I loved more than anything. At 9 Joanne left to go back to England. I missed her so much, she was the big sister I never had.

When I was 10, I kicked my baby sister out of my room and decided I wanted to paint it dark purple. My mom decided to paint it lavender. As I grabbed the paintbrush, I remember being really sad having to paint over Joanne’s flowers. I didn’t like the purple we painted my room, it gave me a busy, crowded feeling, and nothing matched.

Freshman year I painted my room light blue and it turn out to be similar to the light pink. I didn’t like it.

Junior year my house was undergoing a mini makeover, redoing the bathrooms, floors, and paint jobs. This time, I paint a huge chunk of different shades of blue, carefully deciding which one was my favorite. I choose a sky blue, that made my room feel as if I was on a beach 24/7.

It was mine. It was me.

Finished Collage

The Puzzle Piece

When I was little, my family and I would do puzzles. A lot. I sometimes wonder how we ever kept all of the puzzle pieces in the right puzzle box. But, there was one puzzle that I remember more clearly than all the others. My family would spend hours putting it together. Then one day, a puzzle piece went missing.

April 9^th, at my boyfriend’s house for Passover, I answer a call from my mom:

“Mom, we are about to start dinner, can I please call you back later?” I said annoyed.

“There has been an accident… She choked. Dad’s on his way to the hospital.”

“…what….what do you mean?”

“I am so sorry sweetie… grandma is gone.”

In my mind, I had always known this day would come. And I had known that I needed to prepare myself for a loss of someone whom I cherished so dearly. After all, everyone was concerned about me, considering what happened after Steve and Ray’s deaths. So I went to therapy. But, even with all the therapy in the world, nothing could have prepared me for this.

April 9^th, at my boyfriend’s house for Passover, while everyone is sitting down for prayers, after the phone call with my mom:

Shock. Disbelieve. Extreme sadness. Rage.

Pain. The unbearable pain of losing someone so involved in your life, it was like someone ripped my chest open, thrown my heart on the floor, managing to puncture both my lungs. I couldn’t breathe.

We all knew that grandma needed help, and she was only getting worse. But I blocked all of it out of my mind. I remember the last time I saw here. Lying in the hospital bed. I stood in the corner, I didn’t even stay anything, I could barely look. Just even thinking about losing my grandma would make me sob, but then I would remember that she is still here, she is still fighting. Now, I can’t stop.

April 9^th, at my boyfriend’s house for Passover, while everyone is saying prayers, I have the weight of the world on my shoulders:

Me: “She shouldn’t have died! She shouldn’t have! Why isn’t grandpa suing the hospital?! It’s their fault, they should pay!”

Sam: “Johanna, they did everything they could! She is gone and you need to accept that. Please come downstairs and join us for dinner.”

He couldn’t understand. Passover didn’t matter anymore. How could I even celebrate Passover without my grandma? She was always the one to cook the food and bring my family together. It just felt so wrong. I couldn’t go downstairs and be normal, I didn’t feel normal. I was broken; I was missing a puzzle piece. How do you hold yourself together, when the only thing that keeps you sane is now just a memory?

Present Day:

I feel the need to express outwardly. If I express my love and devotion outwardly, then I could never lose my grandma’s memories. I have exhausted way too many ideas. One I am particularly keen on: a tattoo. Its permanent. I know. That’s the point.

My Dad on the subject of a tattoo:

“You get a tattoo, and I will not pay your college tuition.”

Damnit.

At my grandma’s funeral, I buried my tears and sadness along with her coffin. I make myself believe that she is still alive, that her soul can still be with me. But if I let that guard down, the tears fall as if I had never stopped crying in the first place.

There is a hole in my heart. And I can stuff it with tissues, candy, memories, and sorrow. But nothing fits, nothing stays. Because my grandma is my missing puzzle piece. I need her to feel whole.

Dedication to my grandma:

I miss you. I love you. Come back please.

I need you.

In memory of Lois Beryl Rosenberg.

Collage- two pages!

The Puzzle Piece

When I was little, my family and I would do puzzles. A lot. I sometimes wonder how we ever kept all of the puzzle pieces in the right puzzle box. But, there was one puzzle that I remember more clearly than all the others. My family would spend hours putting it together. Then one day, a puzzle piece went missing.

April 9^th, at my boyfriend’s house for Passover, I answer a call from my mom:

“Mom, we are about to start dinner, can I please call you back later?” I said annoyed.

“There has been an accident… She choked. Dad’s on his way to the hospital.”

“…what….what do you mean?”

“I am so sorry sweetie… grandma is gone.”

In my mind, I had always known this day would come. And I had known that I needed to prepare myself for a loss of someone whom I cherished so dearly. After all, everyone was concerned about me, considering what happened after Steve and Ray’s deaths. So I went to therapy. But, even with all the therapy in the world, nothing could have prepared me for this.

April 9^th, at my boyfriend’s house for Passover, while everyone is sitting down for prayers, after the phone call with my mom:

Shock. Disbelieve. Extreme sadness. Rage.

Pain. The unbearable pain of losing someone so involved in your life, it was like someone ripped my chest open, thrown my heart on the floor, managing to puncture both my lungs. I couldn’t breathe.

We all knew that grandma needed help, and she was only getting worse. But I blocked all of it out of my mind. I remember the last time I saw here. Lying in the hospital bed. I stood in the corner, I didn’t even stay anything, I could barely look. Just even thinking about losing my grandma would make me sob, but then I would remember that she is still here, she is still fighting. Now, I can’t stop.

April 9^th, at my boyfriend’s house for Passover, while everyone is saying prayers, I have the weight of the world on my shoulders:

Me: “She shouldn’t have died! She shouldn’t have! Why isn’t grandpa suing the hospital?! It’s their fault, they should pay!”

Sam: “Johanna, they did everything they could! She is gone and you need to accept that. Please come downstairs and join us for dinner.”

He couldn’t understand. Passover didn’t matter anymore. How could I even celebrate Passover without my grandma? She was always the one to cook the food and bring my family together. It just felt so wrong. I couldn’t go downstairs and be normal, I didn’t feel normal. I was broken; I was missing a puzzle piece. How do you hold yourself together, when the only thing that keeps you sane is now just a memory?

Collage- first page

The Puzzle Piece

When I was little, my family and I would do puzzles. A lot. I sometimes wonder how we ever kept all of the puzzle pieces in the right puzzle box. But, there was one puzzle that I remember more clearly than all the others. My family would spend hours putting it together. Then one day, a puzzle piece went missing.

April 9^th, at my boyfriend’s house for Passover, I answer a call from my mom:

“Mom, we are about to start dinner, can I please call you back later?” I said annoyed.

“There has been an accident… She choked. Dad’s on his way to the hospital.”

“…what….what do you mean?”

“I am so sorry sweetie… grandma is gone.”

April 9^th, at my boyfriend’s house for Passover, while everyone is sitting down for prayers, after the 2^nd phone call with my mom:

Shock. Disbelieve. Extreme sadness. And rage.

The worst part was the pain. The unbearable pain of losing someone so involved in your life, it was like someone ripped my chest open, thrown my heart on the floor, managing to puncture both my lungs. I couldn’t breathe.