One summer, Jacob, the insufferable brat that he was, had been causing a fit with his mother. Unwilling, either to obey her demands to do the chores, the laundry, or start working on homework, he had gone out on the balcony to smoke a cigarette. His mother, enraged at the shadow of a man who stood at the balcony, grabbed a green kickball, swung open the door, and hurled the ball at Jacob’s head. It bounced off his face and flew into the tree nearby, getting lost within the branches. This was the last straw for Jacob. He burst from the balcony, shouting. His mother began cowering. The fire in his eyes had burned his face, a devil rising out of his wan. His nostrils flared, and his breathing grew tense. A fist was raised, but he did not swing. He calmed himself, went to his bedroom, and quickly emptied his drawers of clothes and possessions. He gathered up his tobacco and rolling papers, hidden within a hollowed out book which he held under his arm. Stomping as he went, he carried the backpack— which contained some clothes, money, papers, and jewelry—to the door. His mother was laying on the floor, still in shock. She had saw in Jacob a past nightmare. Jacob slammed the door that sent a jolt all through the mother’s body.
This was the last time Maria had seen her son alive. Three months later, he committed suicide. His body had floated down the Willamette River. There was no note, no closure for the grieving mother. When the police came with the news, her face fell harshly, weighed down by the realization that she, at 43, was now completely alone in the world. The leaves outside, burned by the last rays of the fading November sun, had left the trees, and the rain softened the mulch on the ground. Through her window in the rushes of the maple tree, there she saw the green ball, bright amongst the decaying leaves and cold drawn sky.
the lowercase life 