Kirtrines Basement :: Personal Narrative, Autobiographical Essay

Kirtrines cellar babe Lopez? I looked down the winding staircase into the murky depths of my neighbors unsmooth basement. sister Lopez, can I talk to you?The only sound was the crocked hum of the sewing machine, so I quietly took the stairs twain at a time. I was twelve years old--polite and refined, but non overly patient. My mother, a wonderful but slightly overzealous Mormon Relief Society president, had sent me with a Homemaking invitation to give to the ever-elusive, inactive Sister Lopez.Sister Lopez was rallyting at a large table, feeding weather sheet into a huge sewing machine. The only light in the populate was the leftover sun that managed to squeeze through the window well. It illuminated her hairsbreadth which fell to her shoulders like blackberry satin. I watched her look up at me with only mild curiosity. Hello.Hello... I wanted to give you this.Thanks. Why dont you sit down? Her face was so flawless, so unreal. She looked like a cleaning woman in one of my mothers catalogues--Lands End, maybe, or J Crew. I took a fold up chair from its resting place on a cement wall. How are you, Sister Lopez? I asked. It was all I had ever been taught to ask an adult. Sister Lopez jested the to the highest degree sincere laugh I had ever heard. I suppose it was the laugh of a jubilant woman, but at the time I wasnt old(prenominal) enough with laughter to tell. Call me Kirtrine.Kirtrine. I liked the way the playscript sounded on my lips.And the real question is, she continued, how are you?To say the least I was startled. Me? Im fine. As if some(prenominal)one needed to ask how I was it was perfectly apparent to any semi-competent onlooker. I was almost thirteen, with matted brown hair, awkward, angular glasses, and an uncomfortable pack gain where hips should have been. A pubescent nightmare, I had acne like the ahead picture on a skin care infomercial and curve teeth, surely the envy of every jack o lantern. How was I? I was a mess.Tell me a bout school, she prodded, though it sounded like anything but prodding.Any clever guys?I sat there, on a cold, hard folding chair, meet by bolts of colorful cloth. I opened up like I never had before in that room I cried with the ice glowering chiffon, I laughed with the tomato red flannel. I was as pristine as crisp white linen I was as sophisticated as black velvet.