I would love some feedback on this creative writing piece due in a few days for year 12. It is about my Grandma and how i remember her, wondering if it's too cliche? the aspect of belonging is that my grandpa feels isolated at the end, but still grasps my father's hand for some comfort. Also - my grandma's contribution to my sense of self.. thanks
Dorothy: a reflection
On the two-hour drive; mountains after valley after lakes and rivers kept me conscious, a bridge that overlooked stream of waterlogged paths with lorikeets flapping their wings arrogantly against the wind. I couldn't look away. Red maple trees with the orange and yellow leaves would swing through the sharp winter air. These symbols of transcendence added to my sense of adventure. My father. Singing with such bountiful joy, even more excited to see Grandma than me. His cheeks would light up a hazy pink and compare to that of a child's face on early Christmas morning. The sign Inverloch meant we were minutes away from Usher Ct. House after terrace after acreage blocks eventually succumb to the humble brick house with the teal roof. From afar our eyes would be drawn towards a frail woman with shaven hair swinging her body as though she were dancing to an up beat song. Her smile would radiate everyone in the car. Standing next to her would be Grandpa, smoking his second pack of cigarettes for the day.
Dinner was always on time; the continuous beeps of the egg timer gave us a warning. Grandma would be counting on her fingers for the right amount of place settings, pacing back and forwards up the steps to the kitchen. Back and forwards, forwards and back asking "is everyone okay? Does anyone need a cuppa?" Her steady hands bring extreme portions of deliciously cooked homemade bread, Grandpa's signature sausages, potato salad picked from the vegetable patch and tomato sauce balancing under her chin. Old people ran on clockwork and Grandma was no exception.
The music was too loud. Her off key pitch blared over the well-loved jukebox in the lounge room. Grandma didn't let anyone sit in her house, her hand sprawled out in a crazed motion indicating I should join her to dance. If I was anywhere else but here I would have felt embarrassment. The paisley navy dress she was wearing flared side to side in an oceanic hustle with the beat of the tune.
The brown floorboards that screeched below my bathed feet still beckon in my brain. I walked down the old stairs to see Grandma with her tools, neatly picking out each root of weed that nestled between the vegetables. I could watch her for hours. Plump potatoes dominated the garden, in and around the stark ember coloured carrots and the sweetest beetroot you'd ever taste. Grandma took bounds of joy in taking care of her vegetables; grandpa wasn't to touch in case his stumpy fingers would tare them apart.
Family meant everything to her. More photo albums than in a supermarket were contained in her cupboards. She sat on her bamboo chair picking each album up to show everyone, describing who was pictured and what year it was taken. Her hand was a ghost pointing to each picture with such force. The bamboo chair would rattle every time she moved; it was like a band of flutes in her living room.
***************************************************************** ***************
My grandma once filled with joy and life suddenly and peacefully left. The only person Grandpa had ever loved found her sprawled across the kitchen floor with a single egg timer between her fingers. Her face was still smiling beneath the nature of her state. Missing half of himself, the strongest person I'd ever known, latched onto both her framed photograph and my father's hand. Husband and son come together to morn the loss of the woman whose remains now lay with nature. Her cheekbones hard as rock, lips a tiny love heart and her old fashioned cut also hangs pictured at the front of the seminar, with 85 swollen cried out eyes looking back at it.
(I was thinking of interweaving a song throughout this story.. maybe the beatles)
Dorothy: a reflection
On the two-hour drive; mountains after valley after lakes and rivers kept me conscious, a bridge that overlooked stream of waterlogged paths with lorikeets flapping their wings arrogantly against the wind. I couldn't look away. Red maple trees with the orange and yellow leaves would swing through the sharp winter air. These symbols of transcendence added to my sense of adventure. My father. Singing with such bountiful joy, even more excited to see Grandma than me. His cheeks would light up a hazy pink and compare to that of a child's face on early Christmas morning. The sign Inverloch meant we were minutes away from Usher Ct. House after terrace after acreage blocks eventually succumb to the humble brick house with the teal roof. From afar our eyes would be drawn towards a frail woman with shaven hair swinging her body as though she were dancing to an up beat song. Her smile would radiate everyone in the car. Standing next to her would be Grandpa, smoking his second pack of cigarettes for the day.
Dinner was always on time; the continuous beeps of the egg timer gave us a warning. Grandma would be counting on her fingers for the right amount of place settings, pacing back and forwards up the steps to the kitchen. Back and forwards, forwards and back asking "is everyone okay? Does anyone need a cuppa?" Her steady hands bring extreme portions of deliciously cooked homemade bread, Grandpa's signature sausages, potato salad picked from the vegetable patch and tomato sauce balancing under her chin. Old people ran on clockwork and Grandma was no exception.
The music was too loud. Her off key pitch blared over the well-loved jukebox in the lounge room. Grandma didn't let anyone sit in her house, her hand sprawled out in a crazed motion indicating I should join her to dance. If I was anywhere else but here I would have felt embarrassment. The paisley navy dress she was wearing flared side to side in an oceanic hustle with the beat of the tune.
The brown floorboards that screeched below my bathed feet still beckon in my brain. I walked down the old stairs to see Grandma with her tools, neatly picking out each root of weed that nestled between the vegetables. I could watch her for hours. Plump potatoes dominated the garden, in and around the stark ember coloured carrots and the sweetest beetroot you'd ever taste. Grandma took bounds of joy in taking care of her vegetables; grandpa wasn't to touch in case his stumpy fingers would tare them apart.
Family meant everything to her. More photo albums than in a supermarket were contained in her cupboards. She sat on her bamboo chair picking each album up to show everyone, describing who was pictured and what year it was taken. Her hand was a ghost pointing to each picture with such force. The bamboo chair would rattle every time she moved; it was like a band of flutes in her living room.
***************************************************************** ***************
My grandma once filled with joy and life suddenly and peacefully left. The only person Grandpa had ever loved found her sprawled across the kitchen floor with a single egg timer between her fingers. Her face was still smiling beneath the nature of her state. Missing half of himself, the strongest person I'd ever known, latched onto both her framed photograph and my father's hand. Husband and son come together to morn the loss of the woman whose remains now lay with nature. Her cheekbones hard as rock, lips a tiny love heart and her old fashioned cut also hangs pictured at the front of the seminar, with 85 swollen cried out eyes looking back at it.
(I was thinking of interweaving a song throughout this story.. maybe the beatles)