I hated that room. Deep inside of my heart of hearts I hated it. Hitler's lounge in beige. Royally proud of itself. Proud of its giant mute curtains that weighed more than a Panzer Tank. Of its windows that went to the ceiling but were never open for the same sunlight the proletariat might enjoy. Of its stiff, posh couch and of its frivolous, itchy pillows. Of its ottoman too fancy to put your feet on. Of the limping tree that had had the life sucked out through its leaves. Of the carpet tall as grass. The sense of total death, not in a morose way, but that no thing who'd have created this place could have ever lived a genuine day in their life. But the worst, most heart blending thing about it were the dolled-up pictures.
The pictures that covered every inch of the walls and overlapped at the stuck-out corners. The pictures of dead countesses who did nothing but eat roast duck and pose for paintings and have chamber maids sew ugly gowns. The pictures of "hunters" and their sabers, trampling behind a dozen blood hounds chasing a single orange fox, burning away. The pictures of delicate tapestry with several square borders behind the thick glass. And the tragedy that was the beautiful, ornate, wooden frames forced forever to hold them. The frames were too good for it all. Too good to house the White Man's Burden.
"Tea!" My grandmother sang.
She rubbed across the room doing a thing I called "slipper walking", though there were none.
She carried a carved and clinking tray made specifically for the walk from the kettle to the living room.
"Have some of this with the lemon." I took it and squeezed my lemon into my tea, it tasted like you'd expect. My grandmother literally slapped my wrist.
"Laura, stir first. Take your time with it." My grandmother got up and shuffled around like she'd forgotten her keys and then sat back down.
"You don't talk much do you sweetie? Not much going on upstairs is there dear?"
The tea tasted bitter.
"Well that's alright, a real lady knows when its her turn to keep quiet," she smiled.
The pictures that covered every inch of the walls and overlapped at the stuck-out corners. The pictures of dead countesses who did nothing but eat roast duck and pose for paintings and have chamber maids sew ugly gowns. The pictures of "hunters" and their sabers, trampling behind a dozen blood hounds chasing a single orange fox, burning away. The pictures of delicate tapestry with several square borders behind the thick glass. And the tragedy that was the beautiful, ornate, wooden frames forced forever to hold them. The frames were too good for it all. Too good to house the White Man's Burden.
"Tea!" My grandmother sang.
She rubbed across the room doing a thing I called "slipper walking", though there were none.
She carried a carved and clinking tray made specifically for the walk from the kettle to the living room.
"Have some of this with the lemon." I took it and squeezed my lemon into my tea, it tasted like you'd expect. My grandmother literally slapped my wrist.
"Laura, stir first. Take your time with it." My grandmother got up and shuffled around like she'd forgotten her keys and then sat back down.
"You don't talk much do you sweetie? Not much going on upstairs is there dear?"
The tea tasted bitter.
"Well that's alright, a real lady knows when its her turn to keep quiet," she smiled.
