Descriptive Essay of Bernice Johnson

Her name is Bernice, Bernice Johnson. She has been waiting for me, sitting alone in her house. I knock on her door, wondering what will meet my eyes. I can hear the doorknob rattle and the door is opened. There she is before me, little and elderly.

Her face is soft. It holds many wrinkles, but her youth can still be seen. She is wearing glasses and her eyes sparkle with light. Her smile doesn't fail. Shimmering white and neatly glasses and her eyes sparkle with light. Her smile doesn't fail. Shimmering white and neatly curled, her hair is put into place. She bears the look of a mother, grandmother, wife, nurse, and friend. All of these things, she has been and all of them, she is.

She has on rainbow purple shirt and wrinkle-free pair of gray slacks. Her small feet are covered by thin, black hose and a pair of black, flat dress shoes. Her attire is simple, but given life by the scarf she is wearing around her neck. It is delicate, covered with blue and purple designs. It is small, but highly effective in increasing her beauty.

She moves slowly, but with grace and dignity. She looks somewhat fragile, but it is obvious that she isn't. I wonder what could give this woman such life. Before long, she is leading me from room to room with a smile in her eyes, as well as on her lips. She shows me her collection of many family photos. I know that her family is what gives her life.

Her home is warm, but I pick up a little touch of coolness, most likely formed from the lack of life in the house. I notice that the light in here is mostly given but the many pictures are spread throughout. Every room is different. The hallway is so very warm. It holds many, many family pictures from throughout the years. Bernice's room is warm as well, but the back room is so very cold. It holds things of the past. There is Bernice's old piano, framed pictures her grandson, Mark, drew when he was younger, and even marriage certificates of her parents. It is evident to me that life has abandoned the room. The living room is colorful and a slight bit chilly. I notice the beautiful paintings done by her children hang on the walls, one being a very colorful clown. I know that this home holds secrets.

So here she is. Her name is Bernice, Bernice Johnson. Her name holds so much more than I once thought. But now, it is time for me to go. The door is shut and I am left to walk down the steps. I am not sad; I konw that this place, this wonderful woman will always be before me. I have made her a part of my life, as well as a part of yours and she will remain forever.

Interview and writings by Chesarae Wegener
Put on web by Wade McBee