I've always taken after metaphors. Or maybe, they've always taken after me. Walking from the kitchen faucet to the dark green house plant, I run my fingers down the leaves, which just barely touch the floor. House plants bring me a feeling of nostalgia. The off-white pitcher I use to water the plant is most likely older than I am. I take one step to the right, reach into the inside pocket of my yellow canvas bag and pull out a permanent marker. I check off "house plant" and scan over the rest of the list taped on the front door. The only one not checked off: "check for mail". I'd say goodbye, but I know he's sleeping. I set the pitcher down on the tiny metal table which holds the house plant, along with a deep red box. I step out of the old house, breathe in the fresh (or not so fresh) city air. I half walk, half run to the mailbox. "1472 The Murphy's" it says. When I open the street facing lid, I am not surprised to see it empty. There hasn't been much since Grandma passed. Grandpa's mailbox is a metaphor for his heart.
My medium length, green (yes, green) hair is swept up in a loose top knot. Grandma never liked it, but when Grandpa first saw it he giggled and said I reminded him of Grandma when they were young. He told me stories of rebellious behaviors Grandma took part in. She always scolded him from the kitchen, half-yelling that the stories were just not true. I believe him, though.
Wisps from all sides of my hair are slightly falling down, and I gently run my fingers through them as I step on the bus. Usually I'd just drive my car, but I enjoy my commute by listening to music and finishing homework or writing. I've attended a small writing class for about six weeks now. It's December, and in Salt Lake City, there's a lot of potential for creativity because everywhere appears as though it's waiting to be written about. The tall blonde woman sitting next to me scoffs, "Really bold." She's looking at my hair. Smiling, I thank her, even though I know flattery was not her motive. The (probably model) shoots me a questioning glance. I smile once more, probably with more of a smirk than I mean to deliver, and pop in my earbuds. I listen to a podcast about death row. And then a ringing from my bag makes me jump.
Bright green crowds my vision. My hair tie slipped out somewhere between the city library and Mr. Schwartz's house. I almost slip when I sprint up the porch steps, but I catch myself on the guard rail. When I open the navy blue door, I admit to myself I am not surprised at what I see. My grandpa is sitting on the ground, reaching for something on the bookshelf. "Papa M, I'm so sorry. I didn't know... I should've stayed... I shou-" but before I get out any more, the tear stains on his face catch my attention.
"No," he whispers. Even in his fallen, weak state, my grandpa looks strong and brave. "You don't be sorry Janine. You don't be sorry."
I don't say anything until I finish helping him back up on the recliner. "What do you want me to look for today, Papa?" He tells me a name of an author who I haven't heard of. I run to the kitchen, set down my yellow bag on a bar-stool, and take out a pencil. I write down the name on a sticky note, which I get from the kitchen drawer. Other sticky notes just like it fill the drawer, with names of people who put their ideas on pages and have the wit to disperse them.
It's the next morning and the plastic thrift store bag is still sitting on the armrest of Papa's green recliner. It's filled with all the books I found written by that author I wrote down. Papa's still asleep, so I go to my room. It's Friday, but I'm on winter break, so I'm trying to come up with a plan for today outside of school. My next writing class is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon, but I'm nervous to leave again. I wipe the tiredness from my eyes and look at the clock hanging above my closet. It reads 9:04. I go to my desk, where I laid out my outfit last night. I pull on my cream colored sweater and black ripped jeans. Not, however, without sticking my foot through one of the holes. When I'm dressed and have brushed my teeth, I make a quick run to the store and buy cinnamon rolls. Papa's favorite smell to wake up to. Grandma always baked on Friday mornings.
