A/N: I was in this competition thing for my school where they gave you a topic to write about (prompt) and you had forty minutes to write a short story.

I know this one was slightly...expected...but I'm proud of how I wrote it and the descriptions I used. Please don't flame because it wastes my time and yours. Criticism is wanted!



Describe something that is no longer there.


It was just last year. One of those sunny days that always left her smiling. I still remember visiting her small home.

You would step inside and instantly be greeted by her large smile flashing pearly white teeth. Her already wrinkled face would gain twice as many wrinkles as her smile would grow larger. Her eyes would shine at you, welcoming you into her home and her heart.

But, there were times when she wasn't happy with me. Angered, her mouth would drop into a frown that clearly showed her disappointment. Her eyes would shine then, too, but for another reason. Her sad eyes looked as though they stared straight through to your soul, judging you.

My favorite times with her were spent in the garden. Her masterpiece. A wide-brimmed hat sat atop her white, curly hair with a scarf tied under her chin to keep it on. A grass and dirt-stained, flower-print dress looked awkward with the large brown boots and gloves. She would only use her hands, she said flowers grew better being care for by hands and not cold, metal gardening tools. Every fruit or vegetable eaten in her house, she had grown.

One thing I never really enjoyed until after she was gone was going to church with her. She would wear her finest clothes in soft, pastel colors, each with a matching hat, pair of gloves, and shoes. She would make me dress up, too. I always relt so silly; she would insist that I looked darling or "radiant". Whatever that means. But she would make me sit quietly on the bench, her eyes focused entirely on the pastor. When the choir sang she would close her eyes and raise her head up towards the sky.

Another thing about her I remember so clearly is her love of reading. We would sit on her front porch sipping lemonade and reading, occasionally one of us reading a line or two out loud we really liked. When it was funny she would laugh loudly with her head thrown back. When it was sad, a tear would slowly make its way down her wrinkled face. She said she hated movies and television shows because they took out all the fun: using your imagination.

Eventually, though, she had to live in our home with us. She was too old to do many things alone. She looked and acted differently, but she was still the same to me.

It was just last year that she died. One of those sunny days that always left her smiling. I always though she'd be there forever. I was wrong. But I still love you, Grandma. I always will.

A/N: Well? Good? Bad? Ugly? My mom cried when she read the second to last paragraph. I almost did, too...and I wrote it! But I'm always being told I'm over-sensitive. Review, please?