Personal Narrative: My Mother

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"I could have been a writer you know," my mother grins, a speck of idyllic nostalgia in the corner of her eyes. It was getting later and the sun was sinking deeper and deeper into the sky, turning the rich sunset into the velvety black night. I was situated on a stool next to my mother's handmade, wooden island trying to finish typing a paper for my freshman Honors English class that was due tomorrow.
"My teachers always said that I should have become one," She placed another speckled glass into the dishwasher, " that I had the talent for it." She sighed softly, with a silent wistfulness in her tone of voice. My mother's stories about what could have been and what she could have achieved were the very dreams that inspired me to make my own
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