Flash Fiction: Grandmother's House

Image Credit: Sam Shorey

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​It was like a hobbit home with furniture a bit too small for me as I sat on a couch that sank down, and drank out of a miniature teacup. The coffee table was like a glassy lake at the first frost of winter.
 
The pale bluish light streamed through the windowpanes and filled pockets of the room with a dusty cloud of rays. A soft wind hugged the house as it creaked and swayed.
 
The door creaked with the same three notes I’ve heard my whole life. Two worn couches hunched like old men in the living room and a collection of precious moments figurines lined the stone mantel.
 
The pungent scent of Elizabeth Taylor’s diamond perfume intermingled with dust and mold, assaulted my nostrils. My bare legs stuck awkwardly to the plastic couch cover as I reached over to grab a morsel of my favorite caramel candy from a glass tray shaped like a rose. One taste and I was five years old again, helping my grandmother with Christmas dinner.
 
My mother was desperately scrubbing a dish in the kitchen until her trembling hands became raw. My father carefully set the urn on the mantel, adjusting and readjusting until it was just right.