I wish to write about my aunt.
I wish I could desribe at least a small par of her perfectly,
but my words fail. She is like a candle that kindles a fire that fills a wide
room with warm, gratifying light. She is short in figure, plum, and
smilesas a wise man smiles at the innocent children. If Mrs. Santa was an Asian,
or specifically Korean, I think she would have looked exactly like my aunt.
My aunt was born as the fourth daughter in a big family of five daughters
and one son. To all of the family she is always a gift of gratitude;
she gives, gives and gives. Whatever she does, she does it for someone else's
good; I guess my mother, the youngest of the whole family, owes my
aunt the most - love, care, everything. Maybe life was really like that in those times,
but I don't think I saw anyone so sacrificial, benevolent and pure; all her
childhood she spent as caretaker of the young baby-my mother-, and as a
teenager she worked and worked to help my mother with her school expenses.
I conjecture that she did not have the opportunity to get her education as
properly as my mother did; many times she sends me a letter or a note with
heartfelt handwriting, and many times there are mistakes of words and grammar.
But her heart, her so filled heart that never runs out of love, brings tears to
my eyes that to me, her letters and notes are the most beautiful writings than
any other famous or great works of writing. My aunt is always glad to give.
Once again, she calls me one of these days, and I say 'thank you' to her quite
habitually; she replies that it's nothing, and worriedly asks about my health.
Before saying good bye, she tells me not to get so stressed by competition in
this school, because to her, I'm the best. So everyday, I try to be the best; I
owe my aunt so much that I cannot let her down.
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