I hide at the top of the stairwell, aching for my grandmother’s hug. Behind me, the red door to our private quarters. Below, our guests; in conversations over rolls with our homemade jam, using our tableware.
One group leaves, another arrives; the everlasting cycle of the idyll we serve while sheltering our lives from their blissful eyes.
Five years old, I’m terrified of strangers. And so I sit, an hour, two, every morning, staring at the stairway antlers. I sit, waiting for that well-trodden creak marking my grandmother’s arrival. Waiting for relief, waiting for our own little world. Waiting for love.
I had a very loving grandmother too.
‘Below, our guests; in conversations over rolls with our homemade jam, using our tableware.’ You show very effectively how the narrator feels her home is being intruded upon by strangers.
Very moving – tugged at my heart. I could feel the longing.