This descriptive piece illustrates the nostalgic feelings of a young man visiting his grandmother’s cottage for the last time after her passing.
The silent creek of the dark brown mahogany door welcomes my slow trudge into the once exuberant cottage, now home to a variety of arachnids swiftly camouflaging into the webbed corners of the dusty walls. As I close the door, the streak of light that emerged into the deserted room vanishes, making room for the cold air to once again establish its cruel rule.
The wooden floor strains beneath the weight of my trembling feet as I take off my grey woolen coat and gently lay it on the lonely brass hanger as it welcomes the delightful warmth - exactly like grandma used to do. As my eyes adjust to the dimness, my nose desperately searches for the familiar smells of her enchanting yam stew, as my stomach churns, yearning for the explosion of taste that no other being could craft nearly as delicately as she once did. My rigid black boots guide me towards the living room where her exquisite china sets elegantly sit on the coffee table, still smelling of newly furnished teak, slowly calling out to the decorational mugs that catch dust in the tall glass shelf nearby. The intricately hand-crafted ornaments which Ma used to so carefully arrange, now despondently waiting to be gently reorganised, have lost their breathtaking glow.
Afraid to steal a glance of the back end of the room, I jerk my bewildered head the other direction in hope to escape the nostalgia of Ma’s house. To greet my frightful blue eyes is an empty rocking chair triggering my childhood memories. I remember hearing Little Red Riding Hood over a hundred times from her, as my younger-self gaped in awe of the tale and her zestful narration. I turn back around as the chair rocks back and forth producing a disturbing ricketing sound causing my ears to twitch nervously. Unfortunately, my efforts to avoid the black beauty in the room had gone in vain. I admire the shiny, pitiful smile of the vacant grand piano as the runner over its top dejectedly stares back at me through its feathered ends. As I look longer, the timeless music Ma used to play seems to explode the cottage with life. I can vividly picture her unwavering, graceful blue dress as her thin, long fingers fly over the black and white keys causing goosebumps to rise on my hairless arms. As I softly stroke the rectangular cloth chair, the reflection of watery eyes watch me from the round, misty mirror ahead. Those were not my eyes. Grandma’s light green, emerald eyes radiate from the now clear mirror as she quietly smiles back while my chapped lips quiver.
With only moments gone by, I break out of the trance and tear out of the humble cottage, making my way back into reality. The chill winter wind of New York roars as my heart flutters while I gasp for breath, desperately looking for warmth. The blanket of snow that envelopes the waking town reminds me of her flowing white hair combed to perfection. The sun’s radiant heat begins to grace everything it touches as twilight dissipates - grandma loved this time of the day. I slowly make my way to the black mercedes waiting at the curb and bid goodbye to the fantasy cottage one last time.
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