"Those who have stories written about them should also participate in the making of their own stories." -Chinua Achebe
Today in class, we discussed our stories, or rather our moments. There are pieces of our lives that, if explained properly, give an in-depth look at the life we chose to live. This is one of my stories: When Mom and Daddy went to play cards with their friends, their two little blonde girls would be put in the car and driven across Durhamville to spend time with our grandparents . On this day, they debated whether to leave us or not because I had been ill during the day, probably a winter-time cough. Normally, I would be fairly bored at Grandma and Grandpa's house because the toys we had to play with had been the exact toys my cousins and my sister and I had played with for the last ten years, but today I was content, in my feverish stupor, to sit on the green 60s carpet that covered the hard wood floor in front of the fire place. I stared into the flames, feeling the warmth heat my cheeks. If anyone had touched them which I am sure my grandmother did several times to check my temperature, they would have felt like flames. Too lazy to stand up from my cozy spot, I crawled the five feet to the couch and pulled my pilled pink blanket toward me; I knew it would serve as a barrier against the cooler air on my back. My red and pink flowered rectangle of a pillow lay tattered at the couch's feet, so I dragged that over toward the fire, too. In time, I fell into a sort-of sleep. I probably dreamed something, but I never have remembered my dreams. It could have been an hour or three hours, but enough time for a card game must have passed. The chime of the silver bell on the back door brought me back to the present. I breathed in my dad's voice, in its low tones, as he and Mom spoke to grandma about my sister and I. His footsteps came close and I could feel the movement of the floor under me as he stood above me. I knew he was looking down, but I kept my eyes closed so that he would think I was still sleeping. Maybe he would believe me since my breath was still coming deep from my belly. He knelt beside me. I felt the familiar scratch of his hard working fingers gently touching my forehead as he brushed aside stray yellow strands from my face. If I stayed still, I knew he would keep doing it. "My pretty girl", he whispered. Minutes passed before he carried me to the car still wrapped snugly in my kindergarten blanket. The pillow would probably stay on the floor next to Grandma and Grandpa's fireplace as Mom and Daddy talked softly on the way back to our house, a whole three minutes. I hoped I would be carried inside and to my bed, too.
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