2011 Student Writing Awards Booklet - Santa Fe Community College

Personal Essay Winner
Kendra Peterson
Penitent
Nothing will return my grandmother and the very thought of that
finality has a tendency to push me into a self-induced abyss whose vortex
knows neither family nor friends when pulling me under.
My earliest memories are of a speck of a town just east of another
speck that would be bypassed altogether had it not been for the presence
of water on an expanse of red earth bisected only by a merciless interstate.
There, the off ramps and cattle guards were the only indication that your
destination was near and even then an inevitable trek had to be made over
the dirt roads gnarled by hardened mud and the remnants of a long gone
driver’s determination to escape in one way or another. My mother would
steer with ease around such obstacles while my brother, sister and I would
peer through the windshield in anticipation of our family gathering as we
took inventory of all the vehicles dotting my grandparent’s driveway. An
hour and a half drive was the norm in those days and between listening to
eight tracks and my sister’s vehicular antics involving watching money literally
float away as she held it out the window in awe, we’d arrive, our
arms bogged down by packages.They were, of course, immediately dispersed
as we were bestowed upon with only the sincerest of greetings and
the warmest of hugs with the last always being my grandmother’s. I
remember her hands, though wrought with what seemed like incessant
labor, were the softest and strongest of any I’ve ever known. Her laughter
would fill the room and she’d greet me with my nickname ,"ama' sa' ni"
(Navajo for “grandmother “) and she’d hold me tighter than the last time.
Stories would be shared, food would be eaten and the sun would begin it’s
descent while magnifying the eddies of motes in the back rooms of a
house built of necessity and love.The cleanup process would begin, with
my mother always at the helm and I would sit on my grandma’s lap as she
told me about the latest neighbor to get under her skin or her mishaps
involving hair dye that she had applied and forgotten about while preparing
for the days fete.The stars would arrive far too soon and as my grandfather
stoked the fire and plumes of piñon would waft through the living
room, I’d reluctantly crawl from her rocking chair and fight back tears
while asking my mother why we couldn’t spend the night.With a final
embrace, we’d walk out into the cold and before I felt it hit my face, I’d
run back in for one more goodbye and another “I love you, grandma.”The
traverse over the twists and turns to the first “big” road was the worst in
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