Personal Narrative: Golden-Brown

As I walk in through the swinging glass door of my grandparents house, the instant smell of fresh white baked bread hits me. The sweet dough crisped to golden-brown is now in sight. I see it sitting there, on the smooth kitchen table to the left of where I just entered. I know that as soon as I say hello a piece of it will be offered to me. As I continue straight into the open living room I notice my gray-haired grandpa sitting comfortably in his cushioned lazy boy rocker. With every slow rock he makes there is a slight creak that overpowers the sound of the Twins game on their T.V. On the crest of the same rocker lies his favorite dog, Lucy. Her white and black, furry belly expands and compresses at the same rate of the slow rock. My grandma,