Dalton Frizzell

The Back Room

When I was growing up, I spent a lot of time at my grandma’s house. All of the decorations there were floral patterned and smelled like an old book and cigarettes. Scattered throughout the living room and hallways were pictures of my grandma with my mom, dad, and myself. It was as if nobody existed outside of us four. Her life was a simple bundle of four, but she was always alone. The house didn’t change as the years went by, and I can even now picture the layout so perfectly that I could walk it blindfolded. It’s strange how much you understand a person by the rooms they inhabit and those they ignore. Her house had a long hallway that ran away from the living room. Next to the living room was the pale-yellow kitchen with the wood cabinets that would creak when you would walk by them. Down the hallway was a series of four alternating wooden doors with hardware of gold and handles made of yellowing plastic that was meant to look like glass. The doors barely fit into their places and would scrape the carpet with a semicircle when opened. The first room on the left was the laundry room that stunk like soap and stale water, even from the outside. The two doors on the right were her bedroom and her bathroom with the green toilet, green tiles, and green sink. At the far back of the house, down the long hallway was a door that I never saw a soul go into, not even my grandma. A phantom room with no occupant and no apparent purpose.