Year 13 writers
Year 13 writer: Stacey B
My Grandparent's House
Watching her stand at the stove, stirring the fish bubbling below her, the aroma suffocates the usual smell of smoke escaping from the cigarette end left on the floral tile. It lingers too long. A deep red orchid brooch, one of many, clings to her cardigan. As eighteen years have passed I have grown past her ever-shrinking form, the top of her head only now just reaches my shoulder but her deep eyes peering from yellow furrowed skin still hold a sparkle of youth. Her once elegant self, her slender figure draped in her fine kimono, her porcelain skin are held frozen in the black and white photos atop the kitchen cupboards. Staring at these photographs it intrigues me to know about my family's past.
Letting my fingertip rise over each stitch of the flowers' outline crocheted into the tablecloth, I feel ten years younger; I'm swinging my legs over the edge of the chair once more. It surprises me how little time I have actually spent in this house considering how I used to be so easily curious. There are endless discoveries to be made; endless questions to be asked. Breaking the quiet, Jeremy Kyle tries to calm a raging husband and wife in the next room.
The living room is like a portrait of my Grandparents. A long shelf, fixed just above the length of the curtain rail, caresses the model postal vans my Granddad used to collect after serving as a postman. A small fireplace, dying down, is topped with a bonsai tree and many more photographs, and either side glass cabinets enclose numerous Japanese dolls, dishes and my pencil tin on the bottom shelf. For me, gazing into these cabinets and never being allowed to touch the dolls was agonising. 'Oba-san' comes in, turns off Jeremy and sets a dish of my favourite steamed rice buns on the table. One of the scents I most adore. Nearby this, my Grandparents' wedding photograph stands.
Michael George Barry was my Granddad's name. He passed away when I was young, but there are details I will always remember. He would only ever sit at the right end of the sofa, the stuffed white toy cat sitting behind him. He used to let me comb his remaining hair over to one side to make me giggle, water dripping down his face from my comb. And every time I visited he'd sing me a different version of 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star'.
Delicately holding their wedding photograph between my fingers, avoiding gripping too hard as not to leave any fingerprints, my Grandmother, her self-taught English, begins to tell me how they met.
My Grandparent's House
Watching her stand at the stove, stirring the fish bubbling below her, the aroma suffocates the usual smell of smoke escaping from the cigarette end left on the floral tile. It lingers too long. A deep red orchid brooch, one of many, clings to her cardigan. As eighteen years have passed I have grown past her ever-shrinking form, the top of her head only now just reaches my shoulder but her deep eyes peering from yellow furrowed skin still hold a sparkle of youth. Her once elegant self, her slender figure draped in her fine kimono, her porcelain skin are held frozen in the black and white photos atop the kitchen cupboards. Staring at these photographs it intrigues me to know about my family's past.
Letting my fingertip rise over each stitch of the flowers' outline crocheted into the tablecloth, I feel ten years younger; I'm swinging my legs over the edge of the chair once more. It surprises me how little time I have actually spent in this house considering how I used to be so easily curious. There are endless discoveries to be made; endless questions to be asked. Breaking the quiet, Jeremy Kyle tries to calm a raging husband and wife in the next room.
The living room is like a portrait of my Grandparents. A long shelf, fixed just above the length of the curtain rail, caresses the model postal vans my Granddad used to collect after serving as a postman. A small fireplace, dying down, is topped with a bonsai tree and many more photographs, and either side glass cabinets enclose numerous Japanese dolls, dishes and my pencil tin on the bottom shelf. For me, gazing into these cabinets and never being allowed to touch the dolls was agonising. 'Oba-san' comes in, turns off Jeremy and sets a dish of my favourite steamed rice buns on the table. One of the scents I most adore. Nearby this, my Grandparents' wedding photograph stands.
Michael George Barry was my Granddad's name. He passed away when I was young, but there are details I will always remember. He would only ever sit at the right end of the sofa, the stuffed white toy cat sitting behind him. He used to let me comb his remaining hair over to one side to make me giggle, water dripping down his face from my comb. And every time I visited he'd sing me a different version of 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star'.
Delicately holding their wedding photograph between my fingers, avoiding gripping too hard as not to leave any fingerprints, my Grandmother, her self-taught English, begins to tell me how they met.