The Photograph: My Mind's Eye.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is my entry for BooksRule's contest The Metaphor Within Us. The metaphor i used was In My Mind's Eye. I hope you enjoy :)

Submitted: August 21, 2010

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Submitted: August 21, 2010

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For most people laundry isn’t a safety hazard, though in my house it is; my mom has a way of leaving folded clothes right in the middle of my doorway. As I walked through my bedroom door with my thumb on my cell phone, backpack over shoulder and arms full of books, I tripped over one of these neatly folded landmines. I fell, tipping my unzipped backpack and flinging books, papers and pens everywhere. Fuming, I stretched an arm under my dark dresser for a runaway pen and instead of finding its sleek shape, my hand grazed over something thin and glossy. Fishing through the empty space between the dresser and the floor, I pulled out a photograph and turned to lean against the dresser as I studied the forgotten memory.
In the photograph I am 5 years old, standing in my mother’s red heels with bright pink lipstick smeared all over my face. I remember laughing up at my grandma, who was also wearing red heels, as she pointed the old camera and captured the moment with a flash. I stood up and looked in the mirror hanging above my dresser, the girl staring back only a shadow of the carefree spirit from years ago. She continues to share the same dark eyes as the young girl in the picture; the same dark eyes peeking out from under the same thick eyebrows; though that is where the similarities end. The little girl in the picture is smiling. Her crooked teeth are framed by lips that are currently covered in color and gloss; though the Cupid’s bow shape remains identical to the lips frozen in every picture of my mother and grandmother. I shoot a tentative grin in the mirror. My teeth were now straight, thanks to two years of braces that I had resented every minute of. Taking a deep breath, I look closer at the picture. I couldn’t see them in the bad quality, but I know that her chubby cheeks were pulled in with symmetrical dimples. None of my friends would know I still have them. I don’t smile much anymore.
When I was little my dad used to call me pom-pom, and looking at the picture I understand why. My hair was light brown and cut short with curls that had the habit of sticking out in every direction. I reached up to run a hand through my hair and cringed when I touched it. Thanks to many boxes of raven black dye and hours of crushing it with a straightener, the texture of my hair resembles that of hay.
I know that just out of the photograph’s frame my grandmother stood laughing, deep and full of joy, just like her granddaughter in the picture. Where did that happy little girl go? Could these last few years really have changed her that much? Despite all this, when I picture myself I still see that vibrant little girl; in my mind’s eye I am frozen as a goofy, happy 5 year old girl with fuzzy brown hair.
I tear up as I dig through my closet for the black clutch I will be using tonight and put the photograph in the hidden zipper pocket. I hook the handle around the black dress hanging on the door and take a step back. When I had tried it on earlier that week I could almost hear my grandma telling me how beautiful I looked. Wiping tears from my face I straighten up and walk out my bedroom door, dodging the laundry mess. The next time I walk into my bedroom, I know that I will have to zip up that black dress, hold that small clutch and head off to the funeral of that happy, loving, red high heel wearing grandmother.
 


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