We were asked to think of a special place and journal on it. Having the opportunity to stay with my parents in order to participate in the University of Mississippi Writing Project, I have been inspired to remember what makes my parents' home so special to me. I am working on this piece and trying to fine tune it. I cannot wait to see your responses. Being a part of this writing project, I am trying to embrace the writer I did not know. Thanks for reading!
Home Is Where My Heart Is
By Cassandra Hawkins-Wilson
Footprint like messages lead up a steep driveway guided by specially placed rocks. Reminding me that it rained the day before, my muddy footprints cross the sheltered carport and stop at the bottom of the largest concrete block stair. I quickly catch the aroma of one of my favorite place, taking care to remove the fully-covered muddy shoes. My parents’ thirty-three year old home is one of the most comfortable and loving places I know.
From the wooden front door to each bedroom, I am amazed that many things look the same as when I lived him, a mere nine years ago. Walking through the threshold, I escape into another world. Crossing into a world of peace and serenity, I take in the open kitchen and dining area. The wooden table, which once was adorned with a tablecloth hand painted by my creative mother, is cluttered with a variety of things and functions more as a desk than the Mecca of family time and celebration it once was.
Not far from it, just to the side of the table lies a corner stand snuggled closely with the wood paneling. Filled with antique what-nots and opened mail, this corner stand has always operated as the communications depot. Even after I moved out, I would visit the corner stand to find out what I have been missing since away at college. Most of the time it was unwanted junk mail, credit card statements, and cell phone statements.
As I walk through the doorway to the living room, I remember the cowboy saloon swinging doors that once functioned as a room divider. Dividing the living room from the dining area, these swinging doors were the object of our affection. Before their unfortunate destruction, we were warned to not play with them. Yet, the saloon style doors could not survive the harshness of our tender young hands. It’s so unfortunate that they were unable to grow to a ripe old age.
Within a few feet stands a wooden oak glass cabinet housing the precious objects not to be forgotten. The crystal vases, a variety of colorful plastic flowers from the funerals of loved ones long gone, sacred white and black spotted jersey cows, staring at the human-like figurines mimicking important acts related to my family, positioned nearby symbolized the preservation of family. The faded designs of the linoleum, the replacement ceiling in the living room, the old remaining ceiling, the gas heater lacking the gas (we never used it), the recreated fireplace, which will make you sweat with the smallest fire, all scream the validity I need to know that I am where I always have loved to be: HOME.
Home Is Where My Heart Is
By Cassandra Hawkins-Wilson
Footprint like messages lead up a steep driveway guided by specially placed rocks. Reminding me that it rained the day before, my muddy footprints cross the sheltered carport and stop at the bottom of the largest concrete block stair. I quickly catch the aroma of one of my favorite place, taking care to remove the fully-covered muddy shoes. My parents’ thirty-three year old home is one of the most comfortable and loving places I know.
From the wooden front door to each bedroom, I am amazed that many things look the same as when I lived him, a mere nine years ago. Walking through the threshold, I escape into another world. Crossing into a world of peace and serenity, I take in the open kitchen and dining area. The wooden table, which once was adorned with a tablecloth hand painted by my creative mother, is cluttered with a variety of things and functions more as a desk than the Mecca of family time and celebration it once was.
Not far from it, just to the side of the table lies a corner stand snuggled closely with the wood paneling. Filled with antique what-nots and opened mail, this corner stand has always operated as the communications depot. Even after I moved out, I would visit the corner stand to find out what I have been missing since away at college. Most of the time it was unwanted junk mail, credit card statements, and cell phone statements.
As I walk through the doorway to the living room, I remember the cowboy saloon swinging doors that once functioned as a room divider. Dividing the living room from the dining area, these swinging doors were the object of our affection. Before their unfortunate destruction, we were warned to not play with them. Yet, the saloon style doors could not survive the harshness of our tender young hands. It’s so unfortunate that they were unable to grow to a ripe old age.
Within a few feet stands a wooden oak glass cabinet housing the precious objects not to be forgotten. The crystal vases, a variety of colorful plastic flowers from the funerals of loved ones long gone, sacred white and black spotted jersey cows, staring at the human-like figurines mimicking important acts related to my family, positioned nearby symbolized the preservation of family. The faded designs of the linoleum, the replacement ceiling in the living room, the old remaining ceiling, the gas heater lacking the gas (we never used it), the recreated fireplace, which will make you sweat with the smallest fire, all scream the validity I need to know that I am where I always have loved to be: HOME.
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