Little Did I Know

“We are the heroes of our own story.”

This is the first statement you see when walking into my grandmother’s kitchen.

These stark, black letters are stamped onto the wall and paralyze me from time to time as I read the phrase over and over again trying to make out the meaning. That was when I was younger. I get it now.

The beige walls hold more secrets one can share in one lifetime.

Aromas of roast draped in gravy reach my nose on Sunday afternoons after getting back from our church service.

“God is great, God is good. Lord, I thank you for this food, amen.”

I prayed out loud over the warm meal that she had prepared, even though I really wanted the Lord to bless us with a pizza.

I never had the heart to tell my grandmother that. No matter how old I get, I never would.

Laughs being shared between adults as they have “grown folks time” with the juice they were only allowed to drink, my cousins and I would peek our heads around the corner to see what could possibly be so funny as their laughs echoed and trailed throughout the house.

Little did I know I was going to have many nights like this myself with the grown-up juice I later found out was wine.

The glass sliding doors that welcome you always made me feel at home.

“How was your day at school?” My grandmother would ask as a younger, sweaty version of myself entered her house after walking back from the bus stop.

“Good!” I would say mindlessly even if it wasn’t.

There was a small white TV, no bigger than 15 inches that was on the gold-painted metal shelf where I would watch PBS until my mom would get off of work.

This was the least desired TV in the house because of how tiny it was and how glitchy the picture would show up, but it was the one TV I knew my grandfather would never want to use. He had a habit of coming into any room he wanted and changing the channel as he pleased. He turned to General Hospital one day while I was watching Lizzie McGuire and it took me a long time to forgive him.

The outdated white refrigerator was cluttered with magnets that held up grocery lists, phone numbers, baby pictures, and random reminders. This was also the refrigerator that housed all my go-to after-school foods.

“Grandma, can you make me something to eat?”

“It’s time you start to make something for yourself.”

I wasn’t aware that kindergarten was the time that I needed to start making food for myself but apparently to my grandmother it was. Not only was I not expecting that to be her response but it was the last thing I wanted to hear after a long hard day of elementary school.

Luckily for me, I soon became the master of creating a bearable bologna or salami sandwich, hot dog, or classic peanut butter and jelly. I decided it would do until my mom would pick me up.

Little did I know all these years later I’d have much more tumultuous things than a day at elementary school I’d have to dodge, real problems like meeting deadlines, quotas, and monsters disguised as people. The only thing that remains the same is the fact that I still feel like a little girl who is waiting for her mom to pick her up.

- 1/16/2018 Journal Excerpt