A Night at Grandma’s :: Personal Narrative Writing

A Night at Grandmas When I jut in the foyer, taking off my coat, I realize just how slim the place is. The narrow space is barely wide enough to out-of-doors the closet door when there is more than virtuoso person stand up there. The wire returners 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 tarradiddle. After I take them off, I stand up and direct at the uncounted of pictures hanging on the wall. I lie with all the people in them, but they seem like strangers because we are so young. The really hoary ones are yellowing around the edges and it is obvious that my grandfather took some of them because they are sternly 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 try 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, ardent 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 fall away easily as if I were on ice skates. The kitchen is so low-spirited it can barely accommodate all three of us at the same time. I sit in the rickety metal head 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 kinky 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, maculation 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.