Grandma Drawing Novels & Stories

“You claimed you were the chairman’s grandson, and yet you don’t even recognize your own grandfather?” Preston froze, then his eyes flicked between my face and Grandpa’s, picking up the resemblance. Finally, he laughed in mock realization. “I see it now. You’re this woman’s grandfather!” He slapped his thigh dramatically. “You old fool! Your granddaughter is pretending to be the chairman’s granddaughter, and now you’re pretending to be the chairman, aren’t you? Is scamming a family business?” “You!” Grandpa broke into a violent coughing fit. He was shaking in anger.

“Mommy, look!” She held up a drawing aggressively close to the camera. Penelope blinked, “…Is that me?” “Yes!” Shirley grinned proudly. “And that’s Grandma!” The stick figure beside Penelope looked vaguely like a potato with eyelashes. Penelope gasped dramatically. “Why does Grandma look taller than me?” “Because she gives me cookies.” Her mother burst into laughter behind the camera, “Smart child.” “Traitorous child,” Penelope corrected. Shirley giggled uncontrollably. And just like that, everything inside Penelope softened completely.

I was going through some usual posts on my i*******m when I saw a beautiful drawing made by someone. And then I got an idea. Why don't I spend my time painting? To be honest, painting and sketching was on the list of my very less talents and I loved doing it. Once, when I had been small, Grandma had given me an art kit. It had a sketch book, colors, paints, markers, brushes and everything a person interested in art needed.

"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.

Sofia stepped forward first. “Mother?” Veronica opened her arms. Sofia ran. Embraced her. Then Ethan. Then the others. One by one. Hugs. Tears. Questions held back until later. Amara tugged Veronica’s hand. “Grandma. I drew the house again. It’s still here.” Veronica knelt. Took the drawing. “It’s still here.” She looked at the family. “Come inside.” They entered. The house filled. Voices. Laughter.

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.

I said, kissing her warm little temple as she climbed into my lap, wiggling to get comfortable. Her tiny fingers still had paint on them, and I didn’t even care that they left smudges on my black jeans. She was glowing. My little light. Just then, Grandmother Lana walked in, holding a folded cloth and a warm smile. “She’s been drawing that a lot,” she said, setting the cloth down on the table. “The sun baby. Over and over again. Either it’s the simplest thing to draw… or she might be telling us something.” I rolled my eyes playfully. “Nana, she’s just a baby.”

We may be separated by distance, but my love for you remains unwavering. Braxton] The next piece of paper is a child's drawing, a colorful and simple representation of family. In the drawing, there’s a man in a suit with grayish hair, depicted with a smile on his face. Standing beside him is another man in a suit with black hair, who’s holding hands with a woman in a simple dress. Between the man and the woman is a toddler in a jumpsuit. Then there’s a baby, cradled in the woman’s arms, completing the image. And beside them, with a knowing grin, is a figure labeled ‘Grandpa.’