Grandma Descriptive Writing

The drive to my Grandmother’s house is familiar, but seemingly endless. Entering her house seems like my own, but everything is different. The walls, the furniture, the smells. I immediately detect the picture of my Grandfather smiling in his uniform on the mantle. I’ve seen that picture so many times I’ve remembered the colors of his medal ribbons, the slight asymmetry of his garrison cap. I notice the outdated floral wallpaper that embraces the wall, the flowers and the wall, seemingly inseparable companions. I sit on the antiquated couch, with the original plastic covering. I despise this couch in the summer, the plastic adhering to my legs. I ridicule the couch in the winter, it’s coverings become ice. I feel the other cushion depress hear the wooden legs creak under weight. It’s my grandmother. We sit in silence, a hollow static that does not belong in this joyous occasion. My sister has had a daughter, Alexa, inspired by my grandfather, Alexander. The baby sleeps in a baby bouncer. Alexa is puny, her hands barely form fists and her nails are miniscule dots. My grandmother looks at her longingly, the smile across her face resembles the ineffable experience of seeing an childhood friend after thirty years with no contact, and not knowing …show more content…
Even that picture,” she explains, motioning to the picture. “I know he’s not coming back, but I remember everything the way it was like this. That’s the power of the past. Imagine your favorite store, you go there every day, for years, you remember the name of the aisle with the eggs, milk, and cereal. One day, someone else takes over the store. They change the name and the aisles with the eggs, milk, and cereal. You still go back to the store because it’s a shell of your former comfort. You become frustrated going to the wrong aisles and calling the store by its former name. You still go to the store though, because of what it used to be,” she