masterofmidgets (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
masterofmidgets) wrote2009-09-26 08:48 pm
masterofmidgets) wrote2009-09-26 08:48 pm
Entry tags:
This Has Not Changed
In-class writing exercise from Thursday:
It's a big house, bigger than ours anyway, three bedrooms, a living room, a den, a kitchen that at Christmas always smells of anise and ancho chiles. Even with the stones raked smooth in the place of grass the yard spills over with life - the peach tree and the apple tree on the side of the road, and a stone-walled vegetable garden hugging the garage wall, with rosebushes and daffodils growing in red-bricked circles to fill the gap.
Across the street, between the brown-painted wooden fence and the noise of the main street, is the bank, nestled in hummocks of grass and cottonwood trees that families for five blocks around use as a makeshift park. A neighbor's yard butts the back and shares the crossroads, an old woman who invites us in on Saturdays to sit surrounded by ancient knicknacks and yellowing photographs and hear stories told in heavily-accented English while we sip tea and nibble German chocolate bars.
To the east, it's a clear view straight to the mountains, the high knobbled ridge glazed watermeleon-pink by the setting sun.
Every story I tell, no matter the reason, comes back to the mountains eventually.
It's a big house, bigger than ours anyway, three bedrooms, a living room, a den, a kitchen that at Christmas always smells of anise and ancho chiles. Even with the stones raked smooth in the place of grass the yard spills over with life - the peach tree and the apple tree on the side of the road, and a stone-walled vegetable garden hugging the garage wall, with rosebushes and daffodils growing in red-bricked circles to fill the gap.
Across the street, between the brown-painted wooden fence and the noise of the main street, is the bank, nestled in hummocks of grass and cottonwood trees that families for five blocks around use as a makeshift park. A neighbor's yard butts the back and shares the crossroads, an old woman who invites us in on Saturdays to sit surrounded by ancient knicknacks and yellowing photographs and hear stories told in heavily-accented English while we sip tea and nibble German chocolate bars.
To the east, it's a clear view straight to the mountains, the high knobbled ridge glazed watermeleon-pink by the setting sun.
Every story I tell, no matter the reason, comes back to the mountains eventually.