literacy narrativve

Kierra Alexander
Eden Pearson
Composition 1
Chanel number bye
My palms would began to sweat as I tried to force the words from my mouth. I wanted to
read it perfectly. The words were so big and blurred as my grandma’s hands trembled holding it
up for me. Each night when my grandmother put me to bed, she would walk to my shelf and pick
out a book. Now at age five, she had read me every single book to me. One special night, she had
a brand new book to add to my collection.
The night lights in my room masked how dark it was and the warmth of my bed shielded
me from the cold bare air outside. A giant cookie with a mouse covered the big, shiny book. My
heart beat fast as the words stumbled out when I began to read the title. It was like nothing I’ve
ever seen before. I was filled with so much excitement and couldn’t wait for my grandmother to
read it to me.
My excitement soon disappeared when she told me I would be doing the reading tonight.
I was so scared. I could only read the books I’d memorized; I couldn’t read a grown up book all
by myself. To make it less scary, my grandmother came up with some rules. We would only read
one page a night and finishing a page meant I was grown up. It also meant that if I read through a
page, I got a frosted oatmeal cookie and a spray of grown up’s perfume. I got to be just like
grandma for the night.
As the days passed, I worked even harder on reading the book. This night I wanted to
surprise my grandma. I had the book in bed, an oatmeal cookie under my pillow and had
practiced all day to show her I could read the whole book. I couldn’t wait for her to jump up in
happiness and hug me.
But my grandmother never came. That night I was told she could only read to me in my
dreams for now on. For a couple of days I couldn’t sleep. It didn’t feel right not having her lying
next to me cheering me on. The book seemed bigger and the words appeared to be harder
without her. I went into her room to find any courage or motivation to get through the book. The
room was still filled with her things, but felt empty. Cardboard boxes covered her bed and on the
dresser sat a small glass bottle where only a quarter of brown liquid remained and it shimmered
from the lamp that towered above it. Tightly, I held the bottle against my chest to hold on to her
one last time. Tears slid down my face and down onto my neck, creating a small puddle as I sat
up in her bed with the book in my lap.
My mind felt empty. I just couldn’t get myself to finish the book. Lying there in defeat, I
started to think about what my grandmother would say if she was lying next to me. I wanted to
feel her holding me in her arms, just like she used to. Out of anger, I threw the book aside. I
didn’t want to read ever again. How could I without her? When the book was tossed, it landed in
the glass bottle creating an unusual sound. Cool to the touch, I lifted the bottle delicately.
“Chanel #5” it read. I wasn’t worried about reading anymore. I just stared for what felt like
hours at the bottle. Without a thought, I sprayed the perfume on myself. Then I ran into my room
and sprayed my bed, dresser that were full of the books she would read to me. I wanted her
Throughout school when reading books, I would have this block that would make me
hesitant to read. Sometime later, I finished the rest of her perfume, leaving the book “If You Give
a mouse a Cookie” to me my only memento. Whenever it was hard to read, I would start to
recite those big, hard words to “if you give a mouse a cookie”, making whatever I was reading in
class, small and easy. “If you give a mouse a cookie” became my aid at night when sleeping felt
impossible, when I was bored, or just when I want to see her again. Sometimes, if I shut the book
fast enough, I could still smell her perfume.