A Night at Grandma’s :: Personal Narrative Writing

A Night at Grandmas When I stand in the foyer, taking off my coat, I realize full how small the place is. The narrow space is barely wide enough to open the closet door when there is more than one person rest there. The wire hangers rustle as I pick one to hang my coat on. My shoes make a whiffing noise as I scrub them on the carpet, and they squeak on the tiled floor. After I take them off, I stand up and look at the myriad of pictures hanging on the wall. I know all the people in them, but they seem like strangers because we are so young. The really old ones are yellowing around the edges and it is patent that my grandfather took some of them because they are badly focused. My favorites are the ones that were taken when my cousins and I were young. I especially love the one of my dad without his moustache. I always settle to picture what he would look like today if he shaved it off. The immaculate white carpet. It is so white, it looks brand new even though it is twelve years old. It feels plushy, warm and soft under my feet. I go into the kitchen, and suddenly the floor changes. The floor is no longer soft and plushy carpet, it is hard and gelid and my stocking feet slide easily as if I were on ice skates. The kitchen is so small it can barely accommodate all three of us at the same time. I sit in the rickety metal chair with the white pleather seat and pull-down step. The chair squeals with my every movement. I rest my elbows on the glacial formica countertops as I talk to my grandma and grandpa. The sharp corner jabs into my side, and I quickly recoil. On the stove, there are a couple of pots. The flames infra them dance, showing off vibrant yellow and orange, while they warm the pots and their contents. Water hisses and spits from the pot on the back burner letting everyone know that it has come to a boil. The ceramic dishes scrape against one another as I pull them from them from the cabinet.