My House From A Childhood LIfe

It's a descriptive short story about my old home when I was a child. I was born and raised there up until my teen years.

The soft summer breeze, intertwined with the luscious scent of budding lilac trees, lingered in the air. The grass, morning dew seeping on the short blades, stood tall in the pale sunrise light. Early birds tweeted their melodious songs in the early hours, greeting the new day. The single crabapple tree, blossomed in pinkish-purple petals, was inhabited by a sleeping sepia-colored squirrel. I can't recall the amount of time I spent sitting in the crook of the crabapple branches. The alleyway to my old home was littered with small, multicolored rocks from the neighboring family's driveway. The metal, gray fence lined the small backyard of the house I loved dearly.

 

I swung open the gate with a loud creak! I stepped inside onto the cracked, reddish brick my father had once placed. From where I was situated, the garage was located to my right, a wooden door being the entryway from inside the fence. My hand brushed the woodwork and splinters tacked into my hand. Just as I once imagined, the shock and the pain dimmed in a few seconds' time. I glanced over the wooden door, and I noticed the Masterlock padlock that secured it. I stepped away and advanced forward.

 

The deck, looking ragged and unkept as ever, reflected the beige and off-white theme of the home and garage. Maroon colored berries, small and round, scattered the deck from the overhanging limb of the crabapple. I remained on the deck for a moment, looking towards the low-cut stump. A tall, white birch tree once stood there, lumbering over the house, providing shade for the entire backyard. The bark peeling off always had felt rough on my skin when I touched it. I was only eight when my younger father cut the birch tree down, branch by branch, then the solid trunk. I remember standing out of harm's way in the three-way alley as he started in the tops of the green-yellow leaves; I watched as birch branches crashed to the earth beneath. The ground trembled after each plummet, then his green, smaller-than-average chainsaw roared to life once more.

 

I sighed, the memory fading like sand slipping through my fingers. I inched closer to the glass patio door and cupped my hand, moving it onto the glass. The transparent material, the only one inch thick substance that separated me from the inside of my childhood home I longed to see one more time, was cold in contrast to the warming heat of the sun. I peered in to see the porch empty of any belongings. The desperate need to visit my childhood home consumed my body and mind. My memories had beckoned me to this very place I once called home. A bead of silvery sweat coursed down my face from my forehead. It was time. Time to go home. Hopes high, I tensed my body, moved my hand to the door handle, and pulled. The door did not budge. A small, salty tear rolled down in disappointing sadness. I slowly ambled to the gate with my head down, never looked back, and disappeared into the distant horizon.

Reviews

[BelowABridge]

The description was lovely in this, all the flowers and nature. Love... I remember visiting several of my old homes, but the problem with it was always that I didn't miss the place, but the feelings and people which never stayed long enough to go back and visit.

[Samuel Dickens]

Visting old familiar places, not just places of residence, can be a powerful experience, so I have found. Too bad you couldn't have gotten a closer look. I saw a couple of typos, but otherwise you did a fine job.