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Personal Narrative-Gramma And The Cards

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“Today we are going to try something different for math,” I tell my son, “Hang on while I find something.” I go to the drawer in the kitchen and pull out a simple deck of cards.

I see her sitting at the kitchen table, coffee mug steaming next to her. From the tv across the room I hear a western playing, probably John Wayne, as was her favorite. A deck of cards laid out on the table, I realize just how much her hands, and the cards were similiar. Worn, wrinkled, split, and stained. They were used, and they were loved.

Gramma’s hands spoke the stories she didn’t have to say. They’ve cradled babies, grandbabies, and great grandbabies, embraced family and friends, and clenched the hands of her husband as he passed twenty five years ago. Her hands have been blackened from planted seeds, green from pulling weeds and stained a rainbow of colors during harvest and canning. She’d wipe little droplets of blood from her fingertips as she stitched quilts, mended pants and stuffed teddy bears. Clasped together, she prayed countless prayers, because life was evil she would say. Most of all, you could find them in the kitchen, that was her signature. …show more content…

As a child I would have to wait until she was done before we could play a game together, now in my twenties I ask “Can we play a game?” After her game she shuffled the deck and dealt the cards. “Do you want me to show you how to play solitaire on the computer?” I

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