how do you write a narrative using this? Read the passage, Home by Gwendolyn Brooks below:

Question

Gwendolyn Brooks (1917-2000) was an American poet, author, and teacher. In this short story, a family contemplates losing their house.

[1] What had been wanted was this always, this always to last, the talking softly on this porch, with the snake plant in the jardinière(1) in the southwest corner, and the obstinate(2) slip from Aunt Eppie’s magnificent Michigan fern at the left side of the friendly door. Mama, Maud Martha, and Helen rocked slowly in their rocking chairs, and looked at the late afternoon light on the lawn and at the emphatic(3) iron of the fence and at the poplar tree(4). These things might soon be theirs no longer. Those shafts and pools of light, the tree, the graceful iron, might soon be viewed passively by different eyes.

Papa was to have gone that noon, during his lunch hour, to the office of the Home Owners’ Loan. If he had not succeeded in getting another extension, they would be leaving this house in which they had lived for more than fourteen years. There was little hope. The Home Owners’ Loan was hard. They sat, making their plans.

“We’ll be moving into a nice flat somewhere,” said Mama. “Somewhere on South Park, or Michigan, or in Washington Park Court.” Those flats, as the girls and Mama knew well, were burdens on wages twice the size of Papa’s. This was not mentioned now.

“They’re much prettier than this old house,” said Helen. “I have friends I’d just as soon not bring here. And I have other friends that wouldn’t come down this far for anything, unless they were in a taxi.”

[5] Yesterday, Maud Martha would have attacked her. Tomorrow she might. Today she said nothing. She merely gazed at a little hopping robin in the tree, her tree, and tried to keep the fronts of her eyes dry.

“Well, I do know,” said Mama, turning her hands over and over, “that I’ve been getting tireder and tireder of doing that firing. From October to April, there’s firing to be done.”

“But lately we’ve been helping, Harry and I,” said Maud Martha. “And sometimes in March and April and in October, and even in November, we could build a little fire in the fireplace. Sometimes the weather was just right for that.”

She knew, from the way they looked at her, that this had been a mistake. They did not want to cry.
But she felt that the little line of white, sometimes ridged with smoked purple, and all that cream-shot saffron(5) would never drift across any western sky except that in back of this house. The rain would drum with as sweet a dullness nowhere but here. The birds on South Park were mechanical birds, no better than the poor caught canaries in those “rich” women’s sun parlors.

[10] “It’s just going to kill Papa!” burst out Maud Martha. “He loves this house! He lives for this house!”

He lives for us,” said Helen. “It’s us he loves. He wouldn’t want the house, except for us.”

“And he’ll have us,” added Mama, “wherever.”

“You know,” Helen sighed, “if you want to know the truth, this is a relief. If this hadn’t come up, we would have gone on, just dragged on, hanging out here forever.”

“It might,” allowed Mama, “be an act of God. God may just have reached down and picked up the reins.”

[15] “Yes,” Maud Martha cracked in, “that’s what you always say — that God knows best.”

Her mother looked at her quickly, decided the statement was not suspect, looked away.

Helen saw Papa coming. “There’s Papa,” said Helen.

They could not tell a thing from the way Papa was walking. It was that same dear little staccato(6) walk, one shoulder down, then the other, then repeat, and repeat. They watched his progress. He passed the Kennedys’, he passed the vacant(7) lot, he passed Mrs. Blakemore’s. They wanted to hurl themselves over the fence, into the street, and shake the truth out of his collar. He opened his gate — the gate — and still his stride and face told them nothing.

“Hello,” he said.

[20] Mama got up and followed him through the front door. The girls knew better than to go in too.

Presently Mama’s head emerged. Her eyes were lamps turned on.

“It’s all right,” she exclaimed. “He got it. It’s all over. Everything is all right.”

The door slammed shut. Mama’s footsteps hurried away.

“I think,” said Helen, rocking rapidly, “I think I’ll give a party. I haven’t given a party since I was 11. I’d like some of my friends to just casually see that we’re homeowners.”

Answer 1

To write a narrative inspired by Gwendolyn Brooks's passage "Home," you can focus on the themes of family, loss, and the sense of belonging. Here’s a narrative that captures the essence of those themes, while offering your own creative interpretation:

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The House We Hold

The sun dipped low, casting a warm golden hue over the weathered porch, where Eleanor sat on the familiar wicker chair, feeling the gentle sway of the seat beneath her. The air was filled with the fragrant scent of lilacs, blooming wildly against the garden fence that separated their yard from the world beyond. The elderberry bush, once a deep green, now bore the marks of time, much like the family that had called this place home for over a decade.

Inside, the house murmured with memories—laughter echoing in the hallways, the sound of crayons scratching against paper at the kitchen table, the aroma of her mother’s famous chicken soup wafting through the air on cold winter days. But now, those whispers of nostalgia mingled with an undercurrent of dread as Eleanor’s family faced an uncertain future.

“Do you think Papa will get the extension?” her younger brother Timmy asked, his voice breaking the silence. He was perched on the porch railing, swinging his legs nervously.

Eleanor shrugged, her heart heavy. “I don’t know, Timmy. But if we have to leave…,” her voice trailed off, the thought too painful to finish.

Their mother, Clara, emerged from the house, wiping her hands on her apron. “We’ll find somewhere nice, I promise. Maybe we can even find a place on Maple Avenue,” she said, her voice attempting to mask the anxiety that clung to her like a shadow. They both knew that Maple Avenue was home to apartment buildings with rent far too high for Papa’s salary.

“Those places are so small,” Timmy said, his brow furrowing. “I want our yard—for the swing! And the treehouse!”

Clara knelt down beside him, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “We will figure it out, sweetheart. We’ll have a new adventure, and you can build a swing anywhere. Just a little differently.”

Eleanor watched her brother, who clung to the hope that everything would magically stay the same. She once felt that way, too, but reality had begun to chip away at her optimism. She gazed towards the maple tree in the yard, its leaves shimmering in the low light. Would the tree, with its gnarled branches and sturdy trunk, still be there in the future? Would it become another face in a new neighborhood, a forgotten piece of their past?

“Why don’t you go practice your pitch?” Clara suggested, knowing how much Timmy loved baseball. He leapt from the railing, running towards the makeshift pitcher’s mound that had graced their backyard since they settled in. Eleanor remained, her thoughts a whirlpool of fear and uncertainty.

A few minutes passed before she saw Papa walking down the street, his feet moving with that familiar, staccato rhythm that always brought comfort. Eleanor held her breath, hoping to decipher his expression as he approached their gate. Was it a stride of relief or resignation?

“Eleanor!” he called, his voice brightening as he stepped onto the porch. But his smile was cautious, barely hiding the stress lines that had begun to etch their way across his brow. “I have news.”

Her heart raced. “Did you—?”

“It’s complicated. The bank…” He paused, weighing his words, glancing back at Clara and Timmy. They were both listening intently, hearts in sync with his own.

“It’s going to be alright,” Clara spoke softly, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We’ll make it through.”

Eleanor felt her family’s eyes on her, a silent pact forming between them. They were rooted in love, regardless of the bricks and mortar that surrounded them. For now, they had each other, and the memories lingered like the scent of lilacs in the air.

As twilight descended upon their porch, Eleanor glanced at her mother and brother, at the house that had seen them through the years—its creaks and groans singing the song of their lives together. No matter what the future held, home wasn’t just a place; it was here, with them, alive in each heartbeat.

“Let’s have a party,” she announced suddenly, a flicker of hope igniting within her. "We can celebrate us. Celebrate this house!"

Timmy beamed, and Clara nodded, her eyes sparkling with shared delight. Together, they began to spin dreams of laughter and light, of friends and family gathering, transforming an uncertain future into a joyous present.

In that moment, under the shifting light and the canopy of the familiar trees, they realized that home was not merely where they lived; it was the love they carried within their hearts and the togetherness that would anchor them no matter where they ended up: a place to hold, a place to cherish, a place that would always be theirs.

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This narrative adopts the emotional weight and themes of Brooks's original passage, amplifying the anticipation and uncertainty of losing one's home while celebrating the power of family love and resilience.