ella caisey
Stories (1/0)
If I Am What I Eat...
Along the hardwood floor, pitter patter. My small, barefoot, childish feet take me to the kitchen. The house I have come to know, not my own but similar. I stand in the kitchen, behind the screen of a sliding door. My gaze is set across the lawn and through the slatted fence to my own home. A house, much like the other ones in my somewhat grand but cookie-cutter-esque neighborhood. It is pale olive green and it is encircled by trimmed hedges and seasonal Home Depot flowers. The rope swing that I so loved swayed gently, its red disc seat spinning slowly in spring's gusts. I thought of being on the swing, how I always kept my feet out to push off the towering tree, being frightened every time I twirled, losing sight of the trunk. Waiting for its hard bark to hit me in the back or scratch my elbow. It was a captivating thing, I thought, staring into your own yard, seeing how a passerby might view your life and all that surrounds it.
By ella caisey6 years ago in Families