Grams’ passing was a void which weighed upon the family. It was a foreign land walking through the house filled with her furniture, her collectables, and her clothes. I walked down the hallway, once musty and warm, now musty and cold. The second door on my left was ajar and I pushed it open with the tips of my fingers, like when you handle an egg, you don’t want the shell to break. I walked inside my grandparents’ room, opened the closet doors and was confronted by a pungent smell. The spicy scent of Red Door perfume stained all her clothes. I reached for the sleeve of one of her many red sweaters and pressed my face into it, not crying. I breathed in the fabric, the perfume…her. Going through her clothes and getting rid of them was a little like being in a fairytale, a nightmare, really. It wasn’t real.
Next, Mom and I sorted through her jewelry. Grams had a lot of beaded necklaces, vibrant colors. And she had some classic pieces as well. One necklace gave me a strong feeling as I picked it up. It was a silver heart pendant, so small and simple that most wouldn’t find it valuable, but it was to me. I asked if I could keep it and Mom said yes. I wore it daily, the silver pendant hanging from my neck—Grams’ heart.
Mom made dinner for Grandpa and me that night. She made pasta. The warm steam rising from the pot filled the kitchen, once was warm to cook in, now felt empty and unwelcoming. The house I knew so well was becoming a stranger’s home.
Mom asked me to pick some roses from the rose bushes in front of the stone house. Grams’ thriving rose bushes. I couldn’t do it. I held clippers in my hand, confronting the red roses. The sea of red waved as the wind breezed by. The petals were plump. They looked content. Cutting a few to display in a vase seemed to be a disturbance. If I clipped even just one rose from the sea of red I would disturb their peace.
I sighed. I laced my fingers around one of the roses and directly behind it was a bright yellow rose. I looked in, out, and around the bushes to see if there were any more variety of colors, but there wasn’t. All of the roses were red, except one, the bright yellow one smiling at me. It’s Grams, I thought, she came back as a rose. To me, that yellow rose was her way of telling me, I’m still here.
Next, Mom and I sorted through her jewelry. Grams had a lot of beaded necklaces, vibrant colors. And she had some classic pieces as well. One necklace gave me a strong feeling as I picked it up. It was a silver heart pendant, so small and simple that most wouldn’t find it valuable, but it was to me. I asked if I could keep it and Mom said yes. I wore it daily, the silver pendant hanging from my neck—Grams’ heart.
Mom made dinner for Grandpa and me that night. She made pasta. The warm steam rising from the pot filled the kitchen, once was warm to cook in, now felt empty and unwelcoming. The house I knew so well was becoming a stranger’s home.
Mom asked me to pick some roses from the rose bushes in front of the stone house. Grams’ thriving rose bushes. I couldn’t do it. I held clippers in my hand, confronting the red roses. The sea of red waved as the wind breezed by. The petals were plump. They looked content. Cutting a few to display in a vase seemed to be a disturbance. If I clipped even just one rose from the sea of red I would disturb their peace.
I sighed. I laced my fingers around one of the roses and directly behind it was a bright yellow rose. I looked in, out, and around the bushes to see if there were any more variety of colors, but there wasn’t. All of the roses were red, except one, the bright yellow one smiling at me. It’s Grams, I thought, she came back as a rose. To me, that yellow rose was her way of telling me, I’m still here.
Hi Amy. Very nice story.
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