Eight Stairs to the World | Teen Ink

Eight Stairs to the World

February 22, 2015
By Hannah Stein BRONZE, Smithtown, New York
Hannah Stein BRONZE, Smithtown, New York
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

The last time her dainty feet touched the eight steps leading out of her quaint house was the day she moved away to see the world. This meant no more paintings of the lady in Paris. This meant no more of her really salty cookies that I would eat to make her happy. Most of all, this meant no more Saturdays or any day for that matter with my Grandma Belle. She would read book after book to me with her soothing and delicate voice. The day she made the decision to move away was the first day she felt free. Once she left, the birds that once surrounded the feeders around her house moved away. They never did return the way they used to.


The moving truck came on the twenty-third of October and left a few hours later with no concern. The weeping willows wept more than usual. The tears trembled down my face as we watched her car pull away from the rocky driveway. I almost felt selfish for being sad when I knew this was what she wanted. I would go over to her house during the late winter nights; it was usually around eight o’clock for some hot chocolate and a good story. She had wisps of golden hair and bony, delicate fingers that would point to each of the words on the pages of my favorite story, Goodnight Moon. I’d sit on her green rocking chair with her and listen to her read; each word she read was so eloquently clear. “Goodnight to the little old lady whispering hush” was always my favorite part. I could still hear some of the story inside my head exactly the way she told it. While this often made me fall asleep, it made my worries drift away, too. She would pick up any book off her towering bookshelf and retell me the story all over again. When she finally finished, I was fast asleep in her lap.


One thing about Grandma Belle was she had trouble letting go of things. Her quaint house on Meryl Lane was the second house of her lifetime. It was the house my dad grew up in with his siblings, and it was the house she had all of the memories with my grandfather in. When she did move away, she still owned the house on Meryl Lane. She couldn’t let go of the ouse that physically held all of those memories. She took her cherished possessions and put them on the moving truck to meet her at her first stop, Florida.


The day she left, something felt wrong as if something were missing. Was it just that I needed another goodbye? There was one thing Grandma Belle told me before she left. “Hold on to the memories we have, child, not the materialized things.” I never clearly understood what she had meant as I was only six years old at the time until I grew older and realized she never fully understood this herself either.


Two days after she moved away, my dad was on the phone with her. I heard the loneliness from her voice echo from the phone. But her voice was not so soothing or delicate this time; she sounded distracted and so far away, so distant. Despite the cold feeling, I listened a little closer. I heard one word, “Gone.” My dad hung up the phone with a quiet sigh. Grandma Belle wasn’t poor, but she didn’t have a lot of money either. She once told me that she never wanted to be a burden on anyone. My dad’s sigh meant there was trouble. The worried look in his eyes gave it away, too. Everyone knew what had happened and when I finally found out, I felt even sorrier for her. She was so far away and had nothing to be familiar with.


Her paintings, furniture, photos—everything was ruined. We went back to the house on Meryl Lane where there were a few things left and scattered around, but there was not the cheery aura that used to greet me at the door. She was left with only the money in her bank account, which was not anything to brag about. The inside of the moving truck had burst into flames and damaged everything inside. I tried to think how life would be in her position at that time. She was lonelier than she ever was. I tried calling her to tell a funny joke or story, but I began to feel that nothing would make her happy anymore. She was no longer the happy, cheerful Grandma Belle; nothing was the same as it used to be. Change is a thing that often makes human beings hesitant. You could deny change, face it, welcome it, or weep about it. Before I went to sleep those nights, I tried to put myself in her place and figure out which way I would grasp this change.

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I went back to the Meryl Lane house with my dad the next morning. While he was outside checking the mailbox, I stood in the house on Meryl Lane all by myself. It was for that moment I stood looking at the empty walls, the barren refrigerator, the floors waiting for someone to do cartwheels, making the home happy again. I felt that distant, sad, lonely feeling. That feeling that I loathed very much was one that could disappear when I went back into my house, but for Grandma Belle, this feeling would not go away so easily, especially without many adjustments. Grandma Belle at times was like a clown. She would have a face filled with pleasure and joy, but really once she wiped off that painted smile, she was a confused woman with many paths drawn out for her, but she didn’t know which one to try. She was in a Florida apartment all by herself with nothing familiar. She was a human being hesitant to change.


Within the next few days we went about our lives and didn’t talk to her on the phone at all. We received a letter from her instead. Apparently, she didn’t have her phone for a few days or anything to communicate with; she sent this letter bearing good news though. She met a new friend, had friendly neighbors, and started to learn the ways of the town. Most of all, she was the Grandma Belle I once knew. Grandma Belle took on new challenges everyday whether it was walking on a different path or reading a new book. She learned how to readjust herself to a new environment by grasping the change. We mailed her some old and new pictures every so often. We even started writing letters back and forth to each other; I considered us pen pals.


The last time her dainty feet touched the eight steps leading out of her quaint house was the day she moved away to see the world. This meant new beginnings. This meant writing letters was a must. This meant leaving the old memories behind and making new memories. Most of all, this meant my Grandma Belle was happy, so I was happy. 



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