They part of my night was the

They Will be Missed “The Story of an Hour” written by Kate Chopin revolves around the reaction of Mrs. Mallard, the protagonist, to the death of her husband.Mrs. Mallard’s sister, Josephine, tried to ease the pain by breaking the news gently because of her sister’s heart problem.

Mrs. Mallard instantaneously mourned her husband’s death and withdrew to her bedroom alone. The widowed Mrs. Mallard let her mind wonder and at that point in time she realized her freedom, her freedom to live her life for herself and no one else.Ultimately, she became overwhelmed by joy which abruptly ended when her husband, Brently, walked through the door due to the fact he was no where near the scene of the accident.She then died of a heart attack and from what the doctors called the “joy that kills” (190).As Mrs.

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Mallard’s initial reaction to her husband’s death was handled, I have dealt with the loss of a loved one in a similar manner. As Mrs. Mallard’s sister Josephine broke the news of her husband’s death as gently as she could, so did my mother whose words were quiet and jumbled when she told me.I remember every little detail of the night my father passed away. It was the night of my eighth grade formal and I had taken pictures with my father an hour before his death.I walked into the school dance thinking the worst part of my night was the significant stain left on my dress by my father’s clumsiness during pictures, but I was wrong.Soon enough, exactly forty-five minutes after my arrival the principal announced my name and asked me to report to the foyer.

I walked up the steps only to be greeted by my mother’s tears and the mumbled words of my father’s death.The short drive home consisted of a never ending silence that was only occasionally broken by my mother’s whimpering.We arrived home where I rushed to my bedroom where I cried, but only once.Mrs. Mallard did the same when she heard the news of her husband’s death.”She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister’s arms” (189).

The overwhelming state of shock started to wear in. I didn’t quite grasp the fact that death had crept up on someone like my father. While in this state I started to realize the little things around me, the things I hated, the things I loved and the things I take for granted just like Mrs.

Mallard realized her freedom in her own sanctuary through the examination of little things like, “the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life.The delicious breath of rain that was in the air . . . and the countless sparrows that were twittering in the eaves” (189). This relaxation process was not an off set to realize my unlimited freedom like Mrs..

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