In Beverly Beckham's poignant article, a mother reflects on the profound emotional experience of her children leaving home for college. She describes herself as the sun, with her children as planets orbiting around her, their lives filled with constant activity-plans, parties, friends, and dreams. The house was alive with the sound of ringing phones and slamming doors, and she reveled in her role, beaming down on them, watching and glowing with pride. However, when her children packed their bags and left, it marked the end of this vibrant chapter. Despite her husband's reassurances that it wasn't the end of the world, she felt a deep sense of loss. The children were no longer planets in predictable orbits but became like shooting stars, returning only for brief, unpredictable visits. She acknowledges the common sayings about giving children wings, but emphasizes that letting go is far more complex than these pithy phrases suggest. Saying goodbye to her children's childhood was not a death or a tragedy, but it was far from insignificant. The worst moments were the solitary drive home without them and the initial days of their absence. Over time, life resumed, with the children calling and visiting, bringing their energy back to the house. Yet, years later, she still misses the children they were-their presence at the dinner table, on the couch, or sleeping safely in their rooms.
The article also explores the use of coordinating conjunctions like 'and' and 'but' in formal written English, which link clauses to convey relationships between ideas. While it's often taught that starting a sentence with a conjunction is incorrect, many published writers, including Beckham, do so for stylistic effect. For example, the sentence "My son said goodbye to me. And then he was gone." creates a dramatic pause, emphasizing the emotional weight of the moment. The conjunction 'and' at the start of the sentence mirrors spoken English, making the narrative feel personal and raw. This placement disrupts the flow, reflecting the disruption in the narrator's life. In contrast, "My son said goodbye to me and then he was gone." feels more seamless and less emotional, suggesting a natural progression. The frequent use of 'and' and 'but' in the text highlights the mother's conflicted feelings-she accepts the inevitability of her children leaving but is deeply saddened by it. These connectives structure the narrative by presenting a situation and then introducing a contrasting idea, underscoring her internal conflict.
Linda Pastan's poem "To a Daughter Leaving Home" captures a parent's emotions as their child grows up, using the memory of teaching her daughter to ride a bicycle at eight as an extended metaphor for leaving home. The poem vividly describes the mother loping alongside her wobbling daughter, her mouth rounding in surprise as the child pulls ahead on the curved park path. The mother anticipates a crash, sprinting to keep up as her daughter grows smaller and more fragile with distance. The child, meanwhile, pumps the pedals with determination, screaming with laughter, her hair flapping like a handkerchief waving goodbye. The poem's structure-a single continuous sentence with numerous commas and a final full stop after "goodbye"-mirrors the relentless forward motion of growing up, culminating in the inevitable separation. The uneven line lengths and single long stanza reflect the unsteady, unpredictable journey of both learning to ride and maturing. This metaphor underscores the parent's anxiety, pride, and ultimate acceptance of their child's independence.
In Pastan's second poem, "Home For Thanksgiving," the narrator reflects on her children's growth during a family gathering at Thanksgiving, a time of familial closeness. The poem opens with the image of the family casting shadows, suggesting the late afternoon of their collective life-a metaphor for the family aging together. There is still enough light to look back on memories, but the fading light at the windows hints at time slipping away. The children are becoming silhouettes, their outlines as distinct as their fathers', and the daughters will soon shed their aprons, like trees losing leaves in winter, symbolizing their transition to adulthood. The urgency to "eat quickly" and "fill ourselves up" conveys a desire to savor these fleeting moments. The final line, "The covers of the album are closing behind us," likens the family's history to a photo album, emphasizing the closure of this chapter as the children move toward independence.
In an extract from Tony Anthony's autobiography "Taming the Tiger," the author recounts a traumatic childhood moment when, at four years old, he was abruptly taken from his parents by a stranger. The narrative begins with the arrival of a Chinese man, welcomed into the family home by Tony's father. Peeking through a half-open door, Tony observes his parents speaking in hushed tones with the stranger, unable to discern their words. His father stares at the fireplace, blinking heavily, while his mother pulls Tony close, signaling him to stay quiet. Without warning, the stranger takes Tony by the wrist, and his mother hands over a small bag. They leave the house, walking down the garden path, leaving his parents behind. The journey to the airport fills Tony with a mix of excitement and fear, though he clings to the hope that his parents will soon join him. On the plane to China, confusion mounts, and upon arrival, he realizes he is far from home. A spindly man in a silky black jacket-later revealed to be his grandfather-meets them, hoisting Tony onto a horse-drawn cart without introduction. As they ride into the night, Tony's sense of displacement deepens, marking the beginning of a profound separation from his family.
In this second extract from Tony Anthony's autobiography "Taming the Tiger," we find young Tony living in China with his grandfather, whom he is instructed to call "Lowsi," meaning "master" or "teacher." Each day begins in the pre-dawn hours, around four or five o'clock, as Tony follows Lowsi to the courtyard for morning exercises. Initially, Tony is merely an observer, watching Lowsi perform the unfamiliar, fluid movements of Tai Chi. Lowsi insists that Tony stand still and breathe deeply, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth-a practice Tony finds tedious and dull. As weeks pass, Tony begins to understand Lowsi's language and learns that these movements are part of Tai Chi, an ancient martial art. He discovers that his grandfather is a revered Grand Master, respected throughout the village. Lowsi hails from northern China, born into the Soo family, a lineage tracing back to Gong Soo, who escaped the destruction of the Shaolin temple in 1768. Gong Soo preserved Kung Fu in secrecy, passing it down through generations to Lowsi, whose full name is Cheung Ling Soo. As a Shaolin monk, Lowsi takes pride in this 500-year heritage. After leaving his temple, he developed his own Kung Fu styles and became a Grand Master. Without a son, Lowsi sees Tony, an unexpected and unlikely disciple, as the heir to his legacy. This drives Lowsi to train Tony with intense rigor. In the years ahead, Lowsi imparts the secrets of Kung Fu, transforming Tony into a disciplined disciple and an formidable combat warrior.
The extract employs present participle verb forms to convey ongoing action, enhancing the immediacy of Tony's experiences. Present participles, formed by adding "-ing" to the base verb (e.g., "holding," "looking," "asking"), appear in continuous verb forms like "I am practising" or "I was stretching." They are particularly effective at the start of sentences to depict simultaneous actions, as in "Yawning, I went to the garden to practise Tai Chi," which emphasizes the first action. For example, compare "I entered the cold courtyard and asked myself why I had to do these exercises" to "Entering the cold courtyard, I asked myself why I had to do these exercises." The latter, with the present participle at the sentence's start, makes the action feel more vivid and immediate, pulling the reader into Tony's perspective. The writer also uses adverbs of time, like "Each day," and prepositional phrases, such as "As a Shaolin monk," to emphasize key information. These structural choices, combined with present participles, make the events feel real and dynamic, immersing the reader in Tony's rigorous training and evolving relationship with Lowsi.
In the climactic final chapter of Jess Butterworth's "When the Mountains Roared," narrated by twelve-year-old Ruby, the story reaches a dramatic resolution. Ruby lives with her father and grandmother, caring for animals like Joey, a baby kangaroo, and Polly, a leopard. Prior to this extract, villains Toad and Stinger falsely accused Ruby's father of poaching, but Ruby's photographic evidence has exposed their guilt to the police. As the scene unfolds, Stinger, weary of their crimes, admits he once protected animals, pointing at Ruby. Toad, defiant, reveals his efforts to keep people away from their illegal activities. As the police move to arrest him, Toad lunges for Joey, who stumbles, unable to hop backward. Toad grabs and strangles her, prompting Ruby to charge at him and her father to intervene, forcing Toad's arms apart. Joey briefly escapes, but Toad seizes her leg again. The police tackle Toad, and in the chaos, Polly leaps in, biting Toad's arm, causing him to release Joey. Everyone falls back, and Ruby, seeing Joey panting rapidly, covers her eyes with her jumper, scoops her up, and holds her close. Confronting Toad and Stinger, Ruby declares that the world isn't theirs to exploit, emphasizing her belief in protecting living things. From her window, she watches the villains being marched off the mountain. A police officer checks on Joey, who remains in her pouch all day, traumatized. Ruby vigilantly monitors her breathing, keeping Polly away to avoid scaring her further.
Later, Ruby's grandmother brings her sliced papaya, suggesting she get fresh air while offering to watch Joey. Listlessly, Ruby agrees, ambling outside to sit on a wall, hugging her knees, and listening to the breeze rustle through pine trees while watching butterflies. Her father joins her, sitting beside her on the wall. As Ruby shifts to swing her legs over the side, he speaks of seeing her late mother in the world around them. Ruby admits she feels they're forgetting her mother because he rarely speaks of her. Her father reassures her that her mother lives on in her, proud of Ruby's bravery in saving the leopard cub. Ruby smiles, feeling the truth of his words deep within. That night, she realizes she's no longer afraid-of the dark, of sleep, or of challenges. Her ordeal has shown her resilience. Clutching her necklace, she dreams of her mother. In the epilogue, two weeks later, Ruby and her friend Praveen lie on rugs on the veranda during the monsoon, surrounded by orange lilies and drifting clouds. Grandma enters, carrying Joey, who leaps into Ruby's arms, having left her pouch independently for the first time. Ruby hugs Joey gently, whispering that she's tougher than she looks, just like Ruby herself.
| 1. What are common themes found in stories about saying goodbye? | ![]() |
| 2. How does the end of childhood impact a person's identity? | ![]() |
| 3. What role does a stranger play in narratives about new beginnings? | ![]() |
| 4. How can endings in stories be interpreted differently by readers? | ![]() |
| 5. What lessons can be learned from the concept of endings in literature? | ![]() |