A Night at Grandma’s :: Personal Narrative Writing

A Night at granny knots When I stand in the foyer, taking off my coat, I realize just how sm any last(predicate) the place is. The narrow space is however wide enough to open the closet door when there is more than than one person standing there. The wire hangers rustle as I pick one to hang my coat on. My shoes make a whiffing noise as I wipe 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 populate all the people in them, but they seem like strangers because we atomic number 18 so young. The really old ones are yellowing around the edges and it is obvious that my granddaddy 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 shew to picture what he would look like today if he shave it off. The immaculate white carpet . It is so white, it looks brand new even though it is twelve years old. It feels unstinted, 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 cold 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 cold 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 beneath 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 scratching against one another as I pul l them from them from the cabinet.