Personal Narrative Essay: My Grandma's House

Faraway, at the other end of the world, there is a unique and holy place for me, a tiny, red brick house, who reminds me of my cheerful childhood and the love my family shared. I will always treasure this house with its smell of the past, its pictures of all of us and the unconditional love behind her doors.

My grandma’s house, which seemed to grow smaller as my grandma does, quietly nestled in a quiet street, along the city’s coast on the Black Sea, the house is a humble, red cottage-style with green trimming and a beautiful flower garden that led to the front door, also there are draping, fine established grape vines that covered the roof and a small veggie garden at the back, sea breeze and the songs of the seagulls filled the air.

Whenever I walk into my grandma’s house, the first sight that immediately grabs my attention, is her large old wooden closet, so clean and well-organized. Even now closing my eyes, I can remember my grandma’s colorful dresses and skirts, precisely ironed and draping each to another and the best smelling linens with lavender as the scent. On the wall across the closet there are crookedly hanging family photos, dozens of images, showing us where we have been and where we are getting going; my grandfather in his marine uniform during World War II; my grandma as a young girl at the

My grandma’s table is the emphasis of my living memories. Everything we do at the house is on this precious aged table; we prepare a meal on the table, we dining every night at the table, my grandfather often reads his books on the table, we play domino on the table, we hosting our friend on the table, my grandparents preserve fruits and vegetables in a jars on the table, I study on the table and play with my toys on the table. Our lives were passing through at the table and all the major family decisions took place