Month: January 2019

The Colour Purple

My mommy and I stayed home everyday together. My brother and sister are at school, and my mommy and I do not need to pick them up after snack. While they are at school I get to: colour, play games, play outside, cook, do chores with mommy. I love playing outside with my dalmatian puppy, Patches, that has a million spots. We like to play catch and run around the yard. We play for hours and eventually I need a nice cold glass of water to quench my thirst, so I go to the swing where my mom is reading her book, in the shade. We all to go inside. Today is special, we have some ice-cream on a popsicle stick. Mine was purple, my favourite. I open my eyes real big and look around with my bright green eyes to make sure my mom is not looking, so I can share some with my puppy. She loves all the food I share with her and always kisses me with her long, wet tongue. Later, my mom and I watch one of my tv shows, Sponge Bob. But before we watch, we would grab my big fuzzy blanket and lay together on the big comfy couch. My mom would wrap her warm soft arms around me and I would use her as a pillow. Sometimes, she would even fall asleep, this was fun for me because I could watch more tv, which I rarely did. But today was different; I was the one who fell asleep. My mom was watching some show called Olive, Ophelia. Never mind, it was not called either one of those, it was called Oprah—close enough. My mother noticed I woke up. She always knew when I woke up, I never understood how.

I did not understand why this girl named Oprah was darker then me. I asked, my mom “why is her skin different.” My mom’s big brown eyes looked into my bright green eyes and said, ”Melly, she is a person just like you and me. There are many people of all different colours in this big world.” I responded, “Even purple?” She began to giggle, then she became very serious, I did not understand why. She replied, “Would it matter if people were purple, blue, green or orange?” “I do not oranges, they are sour.” I said. She replied, “But you like taking your orange vitamins that make you big and strong. Go get your box of crayons and colouring book.” We open the box and my mom says, “mhmmm I see.” I did not know what my mommy saw, so I said, “You see what mommy?” Mommy said, “You use all the colours in the box.” And I said, “Because I like them all and I need them all for colouring.” My mommy’s eyes got brighter, and she smiled as she said, “See what I mean, you use them all and need them all. It makes the world a colourful place” I was still confused, but I decided to colour anyways.

My race was not hidden from me. It was the town I lived in. At the time, there were not many other races then white. But now the town is much more diverse, where everyone is accepted regardless of their race.

What Is Home?

My great-grandparents immigrated to Canada from Europe in the 1920’s.
My siblings and I were lucky to go over to their cozy house and spend quality time with them during the occasional lunch hour, while our parents were away. Looking back, I remember walking across the school yard, then down the street. My grandparents would meet us at the door to greet us warmly, you could hear and smell the dripping coffee. My grandma would always make cheesy macaroni, with the cheese from a can. My grandma would always know when we were coming and would make homemade dessert which was always a surprise, but always so sweet and delicious. I could say that this is one of the reasons that I have such a sweet tooth and a love for baking.
The two of them would celebrate sixty years marriage. Lots of family, that I did not know, came to celebrate. This did not worry me, it made me happy, because my grandparents were excited to see their family that they have not seen in years. They treated me as if I was a shinny medal, that they wanted to show off to everyone. My favourite memory is dancing with my grandpa. He was all dressed up, which meant it was a special occasion. He danced too fast for me, so he let me keep my little feet on top of his big feet. His strong warm body would swing me around, laughing and singing parts of the song.
A few years later, my grandmother got suddenly sick and died shortly after. My family decided to move him into long-term care, where he could be better helped by professionals. We were able to visit him there. He even had a girlfriend. Yes, my 85-year-old grandpa had a girlfriend and 15-year-old me didn’t know a thing about boyfriends. My family learned that his girlfriend was someone he used to write letters to when he was in the war.
My grandfather was getting older. My dad had told us that he would not eat, talk and had troubles taking his medication. His body was frail, his ankles were swollen and his war tattoos were undistinguishable, and his face was smaller, but always smiled when we came in. We knew he was ready to go and did not want to be in the pain any longer. So, we would visit him more frequently. My sister, dad and I went to see him. He was the happiest he had been in a long time. We would try to stay strong for him and not cry. Most of time it felt as if he was already gone, sometimes we would lay in his bed and be with him. It was difficult knowing that he was in pain and time was running out. We would talk nonsense and play with his harmonicas that he used to play and adore. Before we left, we would always give a hug and kiss along with I love you and leave.
My mom was away one day, and my dad was at work. So, my sister drove us to school that day. While were home for lunch the phone rang. We were happy and laughing and making sandwiches one second and the next moment I knew. I was speechless. My heart felt like it stopped. I was still. I could only cry. I remember, he kissed me and mumbled I love you. Those were his first words in days that he had spoken, and his last words and they meant the world to me. My grandmother and grandfather unconditionally loved me before I was born and until their final breath. They didn’t need a house to be happy they needed each other. They were each other’s home and I became part of their home.
I am a fourth generation Canadian, a great-granddaughter. Some would say, a home is a house where people live, but to me that is just a house and there is many houses and places to live. Others would say, a home is the place where you live with your family. But everyone should believe a home is much more then just a place. A home is nothing if you cannot share it with someone. Home is not a place to me, home is a person. Home for me is many places.