Quitters Never Prosper
Ever since I was a young girl, my mother would constantly encourage me to finish something I started, and do my very best. I would brush off her persistent remarks with a carefree response of rolling my eyes and deeply sighing. I never realized that the value she was desperately trying to instill in my sponge-like brain would actually be rewarding. I believe that quitters never prosper.
I remember sitting cross-legged on the chilly tile floor in my vanilla scented kitchen. I was seven years old; blonde, bright eyed, and innocent. I gazed out the kitchen window to notice the array of colored flowers, and would attempt to re-create their beauties on the paper in front of me. I dumped out the crayons from the crimson Crayola box, and sorted through the waxy sticks until I collected each shade of pink and orange. I put the bundle of crayons in my right hand, and scribbled fluffy circles across the golden construction paper in front of me. I squinted my eyes and made a “kissy-face” with my lips, focusing hard on pushing the crayons on the paper. After my hand felt fatigued, I hesitantly lifted my hand away from the paper. I tilted my head to the right and took a breath in.
I heard the pitter-patter of my mother’s stilettos tapping along the foyer’s hard-wood floor. She made her way to where I was sitting, and squatted down next to me. She beamed with a smile wiped across her face as she observed my artwork. I had not finished yet, and was frustrated with my mother’s interruption. I threw the crayons on the floor and darted up as though there was a fire beneath me. My eyebrows narrowed, my lips curled up, and my hands were resting on my hips.
As I started to stomp my bare feet, my mother looked puzzled and patiently questioned, “Whitney what is the matter?”
“You ruined it!” I replied with tears welling up, “I am not finished and wanted to give it to you to surprise you!” I was starting to cry hysterically. I could feel my cheeks getting warm, and knew they would soon turn rosy.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
“No. I’m not going to finish it. I don’t want to anymore,” I snapped.
“You know better! You cannot quit something you have started. Sit down and finish,” my mother said with an attitude.
I groaned and plopped on the floor and picked up my crayons. I scratched emerald green flower stems on the paper, and finally was finished. I pushed myself up off the ground and skipped over to my mother with the picture, now sitting in a brown leather chair in the family room. I stuck out my right hand, holding the picture, and she stared at it, and back at me with a grin. I knew she was pleased that I followed through with my picture.
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