Personal Writing: An-Yang

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I was sitting on a dilapidated couch, whose colors were
made indiscernible by time, and was looking around her room. My gaze swept from
the thin, worn carpet, bare in some places, to the scarred wooden dresser, to a
dirty doll with an eye missing. (My grandmother could never bear to throw
anything away). She came and sat down next to me, taking my hand in hers. The
tight braid at the nape of her neck was coming undone. Wisps of thick black
hair framed her square face. I looked down at the contrast between our hands- my
hand was unblemished, pale and smooth, while her hand was mottled with age spots,
tanned, and leathery. She started to pat my hand in the most annoying fashion,
while telling me how large my feet were. I was somewhat surprised, because I
had always been told that my feet were rather small for my size.

Then I saw her feet.

Her feet were deformed and incredibly stunted. Her toes grew in a peculiar
fashion, and none of them were straight. I had seen ...

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