Novel & Cerita Grandma Drawing

"You can look now, Ate Graziel." Graziel accepted the drawing with a warm smile. Three stick figures were drawn on the paper. One was a tall man. One was a little girl. And the last one was a woman with long hair. All three of them were holding hands. A gentle smile appeared on Graziel's face. "It's beautiful." "This is Daddy." Junie pointed at the tallest figure. "And this is me." Graziel nodded. "And this..." The little girl smiled brightly. "...is you."

A warm, loving smile appeared on her face as soon as she spotted Haley. Grandma put down the platters, rushed over, and grinned as she took Haley’s hand. "You're Haley, right? Rhett has said a lot about you. I'm finally able to meet you today. What a lovely girl, so fragile and new. She is obviously a girl from the South.” Haley, a little taken aback by the compliment, said, "Hello, Grandma. Hello, Grandpa." Grasping his hands behind his back, Grandpa trailed behind Grandma, grinning at Haley. "My boy informs me that you share a passion for drawing. I've looked at your work. Excellent. You're really talented."

“She was clearly at fault. What’s wrong with us making a few remarks?” “Also, she’s way too immature. How can someone who drives a pink car to work possibly handle…” Grandpa snorted coldly. “This pink car is mine.” The crowd froze, and the words were caught in their throats. After a long pause, someone finally stammered out, “O-Oh… so that’s your car, Mr. Reid. Pink is such a lovely, delicate color. It really suits you and gives you a more youthful appearance.” Grandpa broke into a bitter, angry laugh as he saw how quickly everyone changed their tune.

Hope you're all well. *Love,* *Grandma Margaret* *P.S. Edward is learning to use email. It's not going well. Send help.* Katie loved the cards. She taped them to her wall. She started writing back, little notes in her messy kid handwriting. *Dear Grandma Margaret,* *Thank you for the card. My sweater is still sparkly. Mom washed it and it didn't die. School is boring but art class is fun. I drew a horse. It looked like a dog but that's okay.*

The mess they had made in the morning, which had been tidied up by the servants. Cynthia loved to draw, and had done so since she was a little girl. When she was five years old, she cried all day and all night after her parents left her with her grandmother.She then bought her a set of watercolor brushes, and she stopped crying and could draw all day with them. When her grandmother saw that she liked it, she said she would pay for her to study art, but it was so expensive that she had to work several jobs alone. Later, when she went to university and was able to support herself, she thought that she could finally let her grandmother enjoy her life, but her grandma died of liver cancer after

Now, she sat here in the mornings, drinking the coffee he made for her—the silent, pathetic peace offering he left on the counter every day, hoping she wouldn't throw it out. He looked at the refrigerator—at the blue circular magnet holding up the three drawings. He wanted his drawing up there so badly it made his chest ache, but he didn't know how to ask without sounding desperate. "What are we drawing, Eli?" "Animals," Eli said, his small hand moving with fierce concentration. "Mrs. Yusuf said to draw our favorites." "How many do we have?" "Three." Eli pointed a small finger. "That's a brachiosaurus. That's Patterson. That's Gerald."

"You must be tired. That’s enough for today." I exhaled slowly, peeling off my gloves and apron. "Of course." I crossed to Angelina’s side. She was pouting slightly, sketchbook still open. "We’re leaving already?" "Yeah." I said, brushing a lock of hair from her forehead. "Grandma needs her quiet time." She stood and slipped her small hand in mine. "It’s not finished yet." She added, lifting the sketchbook slightly as we walked out of the greenhouse. I smiled, eyes scanning the little drawing with two women bent over flowers, one in a wide sunhat, the other in curls, with an exaggerated pair of shears in her hand.

And I’m surrounded by interesting people who have lived their whole lives in these mountains, all scarred and weather-beaten with a thousand stories to tell, but there’s only one face I can bring myself to draw. “Tragic,” I murmur to myself, sketching out the profile that is so familiar to me by now. The strong forehead, the slope of his nose, the surprisingly soft mouth above a firm, angular jawline—I see this face every night in my dreams. Every time I close my eyes, there he is. A glutton for punishment. That’s what my Grandma would call me for this nightly obsessive behavior—and she’d be right. I’m a glutton for punishment, perching on a bar stool each night to draw a man who barely even

Daniel stared at it, something sinking in his stomach. The drawing showed a stick figure with long hair and a big smile. Below it, in careful, childish letters: "MAMA." No other figures. Just Alina. "When I asked who this was, Junior immediately said 'Mama Alina.' Then I asked, 'Who else is in your family?' And he said, 'Just Mama.'" Daniel stared at the drawing, unable to speak. "I probed deeper. Asked about Papa, about grandmother, about Mama Rissa who I heard recently returned. And Junior drew this."

He smiled. "My grandma was an excellent artist amongst being a great wife and a good cook. But she preferred her artwork shelved and allowed to gather dust. The drawing of the river was one of my favorite even as a child. I will stare at the picture frame for long hours, completely fascinated by its beauty yet subtle mystery." Maya couldn't help but visualize him as a kid. Maybe 13 or 14 with some baby fats, curly blonde hair, eyes wide in awe as he gaped at the picture.