Below is an excerpt for my nonfiction class. This piece is titled ’48 Duncan St.’ and follows the relationship I have with not only my grandparents, but the house they’ve lived in for over fifty years.
That house seemingly ages along with my grandparents. The skin on Papa’s hands peels like the lid of the painted toilet seat; Nana’s teeth fell out like the knobs on cabinets did; they had a bad storm one year that took all the ivy off the wall in their backyard, but it would grow again in the same way Nana’s hair would regrow after the doctor said her cancer was in remission; Papa once collapsed in the same manner their folding chairs seem to snap; the last few times I’ve visited them there has been a chocolate chip cookie on the floor behind one of the couches, forgotten about by Papa just like how he sometimes forgets my name. The cookie was there the last time I visited, crumbled and scattered, and I thought if his brain wasn’t like that yet, then it would be soon.