How to study for the MCATs

The Memories He Remembers p.1

Memories he remember, an Introspection.

He remembers the day he finally got away from his clarinet lessons. He didn't particularly hate the clarinet, his friends admired him for it, he thought, and often that was reason enough to play. His notes were lackluster, and his sound tiring as if there was too much clarinet and not enough air. He would stack the pieces of the clarinet one on top of the other, deftly rotating the joints to match with each other, eyeing as if a connoisseur the alignment of the mouthpiece with the body and confidently, his wet reed against the cool black mouthpiece. Smack, it was a satisfying smack of the reed which he then adjusted, twitched with OCD until the black sun crept only so slightly over the wooden hill. He liked this part, it was easy, he had done it many times. He didn't particularly hate the sound of the clarinet, in fact he would come to love it in his later years and everything about it, but he hated his sound because it wasn't perfect, and how could it be, he hardly practiced.

A Splayed Fork

"if he couldn't make peace with his first family, then there was no way in hell things were going to work with the second one."

His life as a child was child-like. The worries he concerned himself with, ranged from the complex maneuvers he would need to take to weasel out of his clarinet lessons to the nail-breaking ways in which lego blocks stuck. He was a decade away from sex, half a decade from its allure, his depression, insecurities and self-doubt. His most memorable achievements were a tower of cardboard blocks as tall as his father, taller he thought, and learning to roller skate backwards. Most days were filled with Janes going to wells, sesame street and the warm, loving smell of his mother's cooking. There in the blue light of the white-walled kitchen, with the cool breeze would blow in through the tree outside of his fourth floor window, between the iron grates, carrying his mother's cooking, spicy, caring, and always redolent of his days in her womb. On the wall above his wooden seat, with its sturdy knobs and steady feet was claude monet yellow and oily, there to waft and soak in our mother's  broad warmth.