Nagging Screen Door

The screen door makes a loud grating noise, which I assume is a foreshadowing of the nagging Dad will receive for not bringing the family over more often. Dad holds the door open, and prods all six of us kids into the small, stuffy living room of Grandma's house. We each shuffle in, dragging our shoes on the aqua-blue shag carpet. We huddle into one corner, while Dad sits on a large, padded rocking chair. "C'mon, kids." Dad motions. I hesitantly sit on the stiff couch beside him, as Dad takes a deep breath--relieved that he convinced at least one child to sit down. I wonder how he can breathe so easily, because to me the house smells like dusty mold and tuna fish. "Boys, don't touch that!" Dad whispers to my brothers who are precariously close to the china cabinet full of literally hundreds of heirlooms and dishes. Everywhere Grandma has collections of antiques, like the display of spoons mounted on her rose-wallpapered walls, and the many matching teacups on a shelf in her crammed kitchen. I'm shook from my analysis by Grandma's cracking voice, "Who could this be?" Yikes.