Kirtrines Basement :: Personal Narrative, Autobiographical Essay

Kirtrine's Basement "Sister Lopez?" I looked down the winding staircase into the murky depths of my neighbor's unfinished basement. "Sister Lopez, can I talk to you?" The only sound was the steady hum of the sewing machine, so I quietly took the stairs two at a time. I was twelve years old--polite and refined, but not 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 sitting at a large table, feeding canvas into a huge sewing machine. The only light in the room was the leftover sun that managed to squeeze through the window well. It illuminated her hair 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 don't you sit down?" Her face was so flawless, so unreal. She looked like a woman in one of my mother's catalogues--Lands End, maybe, or J Crew. I took a folding 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 laughed the most sincere laugh I had ever heard. I suppose it was the laugh of a jubilant woman, but at the time I wasn't familiar enough with laughter to tell. "Call me Kirtrine." "Kirtrine." I liked the way the word sounded on my lips. "And the real question is," she continued, "how are you?" To say the least I was startled. "Me? I'm fine." As if anyone 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 weight gain where hips should have been. A pubescent nightmare, I had acne like the "before" picture on a skin care infomercial and crooked teeth, surely the envy of every jack o' lantern. How was I? I was a mess. "Tell me about school," she prodded, though it sounded like anything but prodding."Any cute guys?" I sat there, on a cold, hard folding chair, surrounded by bolts of colorful cloth. I opened up like I never had before in that room: I cried with the ice blue chiffon, I laughed with the tomato red flannel. I was as pristine as crisp white linen; I was as sophisticated as black velvet.