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Personal Narrative Story : A Short Story

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I loved to visit my nana’s house. As soon as I walked in, I could smell the rich, cinnamon-y flavor of the rice pudding bubbling on the stove. Most of my friend’s grandmothers baked cookies, but I thought rice pudding was way better. I ran to the kitchen, my bare feet going slap slap slap on the shiny wood floor. I ran up behind Nana and gave her a big squeeze. “Naomi! My favorite granddaughter!” Nana said with a smile. “Nana, don’t be silly! I’m your only granddaughter.” I reminded her, putting my hands on my hips. “Well, I guess that’s true.” Nana looked thoughtful. “You can still be my favorite though, can’t you?” “Of course! And Nana, you’re my favorite too. Guess what! Mama says I get to spend the whole entire night here!” “That’s right. Seven-year-olds get to do some pretty special things, don’t they? Speaking of your mom, where did she go?” Just then, Mama walked into the kitchen, holding my purple polka-dotted backpack. She dropped it onto a chair and gave Nana a hug. “Someone,” Mama said, “forgot to get their backpack from the car,” looking down at me with her arms crossed. But she was smiling, so I knew I wasn’t in trouble. It was impossible to be angry at Nana’s house. Mama said she had to go, so she gave me a kiss on the forehead and went back to the car. “What should we do first?” I asked Nana, bouncing on my toes. I was so excited. “Why don’t we take care of this backpack,” Nana lifted up my bag, “and then we can play a game.” Nana had a closet

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