March 12, 2009
By christine samontry BRONZE, Beaverton, Oregon
christine samontry BRONZE, Beaverton, Oregon
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

When I walked through the towering, red door of my grandma's house, my aunt greets me with a big white smile on her face. Her hair flows freely, like chocolate brown curtains. Her delicate body welcomes me with open arms, while taming the children. The children climb up the black staircase, imagining they're in a jungle. Roar, grr, ouw the children rumble, and play. The black staircase winds up to the untouched bedrooms. As I walk through the bright narrow hallway people laugh and chatter. Beautiful and delicate, the house carries hoary antiques. The rusting beige walls hold antediluvian pictures of a long line of history.
As I get to the end of the hallway the smell of the chocolate brownies invades my nose. Hungry, I move towards the cookies, but by grandmother stops me. Sitting by the hissing and cracking fire, she opens her arms for hug. Strong and powerful, her perfume makes my nose squint. She has put on every piece of jewelry she owns. Her skin wrinkled and was pale as flour. Happily, she starts reading stories to the out of breath children. I watch her intently as she reads. Her face is soft and her hands turn every page with care. Her emotions and body language start to calm down the children. She feels me staring at her, and nods at me to help out in the kitchen. As I walk through the open kitchen I hear garlic sizzling in the pan while the smell overwhelms me. I am overwhelmed by how many people are cooking all at once. The stove is filled with pots, and more pots that are waiting to be cooked. The garlic bread comes out, as macaroni and cheese goes in the oven. The sink has stacks of pots, pans, and kitchen utensils that almost overflow the dishwasher. The aroma assaults my noise, and I know instantly my aunt is seasoning the oysters. I move past her and help my uncle chop vegetables for the stir-fry, while my mother prepares the eggs on the frying pan.
All of a sudden, a burst of fire roars from the frying pan. Nonchalantly, Uncle Sam throws water over it. The flame is too large to contain, and flows through the kitchen. The fire catches on to the dishtowels and the elegant cotton napkins. Eyes widen throughout the room. Panicked and confused, people start to yell all at once. Everyone rushes immediately out of the house while a blur of people haste to put it out. Abruptly, the flames are too monstrous and the room is half on fire. Instantaneously, I leave feeling hopeless and lament while I try to leave the house'
I come back to a place that filled with warmth, but now discomfort. I walk through the hallway of the dark gloomy house and find burned memories and pictures that give me an empty feeling of distress. My thirst starts to quench and my head spins in agony. Slowly, my grandmother walks behind me. She looks cautious and frightened by what had happened a few weeks earlier. Together, we walk though the kitchen that once smelled like chocolate chip cookies baking, but now burned firewood. The soft carpet, now felt unyielding. The fireplace that brightened the room filled with hate and pain. The destroyed antique chair sat next to the fireplace. The ruffles on the cushion show signs of damage, and the chair partly crumbled in half. Rough and Rigid, the chair looks impossible to repair, but the memories were not forgotten.
Stopped at the end of the hallway, my grandmother's face stood pale than she was sitting by the fireplace a few weeks ago. She no longer glowed with joy and happiness, but she looked lifeless. There is no longer laughter and warmness in the room but sorrow and hopelessness. Shocked by the transformation, her face did not admit to anger, but carried ambition. Observant, she didn't walk any farther. She walked back towards the door to start a new life, and to create new memories.

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