You discover an old photograph album that has been hidden away for many years. Describe the album and what you find in it. [25]
Boxes were strewn here and there, waiting for old memories to be placed carefully into them. I sat down on the bare ground in the middle of the mess - books and clothes and collectables were scattered everywhere - the old teak furniture had been packed away. As I sifted through each item, I suddenly noticed an old, leather album. Sweeping the dust away carefully with a damp, dirty rag, it had dawned on me that this book had belonged to my grandmother, who had passed away.
The thick hazel album had been carefully preserved over decades. I flipped open the cover, and stared at ancient black and white photograph of our house. The family stood in front of the house with smiles on our faces - my old, although adventurous grandma with her wiry hair, my grandfather with his stoic expression (with a hint of a smile), my mother standing confidently in front of them (holding me), and my father shyly to the side. It was as if I could still feel the warm, soft clothes of my mother. The page was still crisp and white, without any signs of weathering over time.
Moving through the pages, I watched the story of my family unfold. Black and white slowly turned into clearer, crisper, brighter colors, but our story didn’t. The pages became crinkly and torn, creased and folded. My grandfather’s casket lay on a bed of white roses as we stood and stared solemnly at it. My father surrounded by and poring over newspaper listings, with his frayed and messy black hair. My mother lain strewn on a stained couch, seemingly dulled by the images on the screen. But soon, came more colorful decorations, and with them more delicate leafs of paper. Our birthdays were celebrated with great vigor - colors and decorations, friends and family. The birthday cake glowed like a light in dark times, and the sounds of everyone clapping and laughing, the taste of the butterscotch cake, smell of pizza came back to me.
Finally, I reached the last page, my grandmother’s final message. I looked at the way we laughed on the warm summer day, sitting on the country veranda, eating delicious orange popsicles on the fourth of July, while watching the fireworks work their magical colors. I almost turned around to point out the picture to her, but stopped half way. The light outside had faded away, and the house was in the same state as in the morning. Soon, it would be empty, leaving only the memories it created inside.
Boxes were strewn here and there, waiting for old memories to be placed carefully into them. I sat down on the bare ground in the middle of the mess - books and clothes and collectables were scattered everywhere - the old teak furniture had been packed away. As I sifted through each item, I suddenly noticed an old, leather album. Sweeping the dust away carefully with a damp, dirty rag, it had dawned on me that this book had belonged to my grandmother, who had passed away.
The thick hazel album had been carefully preserved over decades. I flipped open the cover, and stared at ancient black and white photograph of our house. The family stood in front of the house with smiles on our faces - my old, although adventurous grandma with her wiry hair, my grandfather with his stoic expression (with a hint of a smile), my mother standing confidently in front of them (holding me), and my father shyly to the side. It was as if I could still feel the warm, soft clothes of my mother. The page was still crisp and white, without any signs of weathering over time.
Moving through the pages, I watched the story of my family unfold. Black and white slowly turned into clearer, crisper, brighter colors, but our story didn’t. The pages became crinkly and torn, creased and folded. My grandfather’s casket lay on a bed of white roses as we stood and stared solemnly at it. My father surrounded by and poring over newspaper listings, with his frayed and messy black hair. My mother lain strewn on a stained couch, seemingly dulled by the images on the screen. But soon, came more colorful decorations, and with them more delicate leafs of paper. Our birthdays were celebrated with great vigor - colors and decorations, friends and family. The birthday cake glowed like a light in dark times, and the sounds of everyone clapping and laughing, the taste of the butterscotch cake, smell of pizza came back to me.
Finally, I reached the last page, my grandmother’s final message. I looked at the way we laughed on the warm summer day, sitting on the country veranda, eating delicious orange popsicles on the fourth of July, while watching the fireworks work their magical colors. I almost turned around to point out the picture to her, but stopped half way. The light outside had faded away, and the house was in the same state as in the morning. Soon, it would be empty, leaving only the memories it created inside.
well described.....
ReplyDeleteThanks Tanishka!
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