I wrote this when I was 13/14 yrs old
I look around; my eyes drift to the last of the melting snow. It is the time between times, as I call it; it is neither winter nor spring. Time is frozen. The last of the icicles on the trees glitter in the new spring sun.
I close my eyes, I can hear the brook rushing by, concealed from my vision by the evergreen trees. I can smell the freshness of the water. This place, this forest, is so old it nearly is a historical landmark. This place of peace holds a special part of my heart. It is so alive. The birds, coming back from their long winter trip early sing loudly overhead. I open my eyes and look up at them.
Then from behind me I hear a different song entirely, the song of the wind playing the icicle chimes. I walk toward that small jingling sound; but even as I reach it, I pass it, for behind the chimes is an old house.
Old houses are not uncommon in Arkansas, they add to the scenery, with green moss growing on them. This house, like the others, is covered in moss. But it has thick green vines as well, and its roof sags with the weight of many years. There are few windows, and one is broke.
I cannot resist. I know I have left my uncle’s property, but old things call to me; saying, ‘I am here, a story waiting to be written, a picture waiting to be drawn, a song waiting to be sung’. I climb the creaking steps and place my hand on the cold doorknob. The door only swings on one hinge, but still, it swings. So I enter. It is a classic three room house. Age old wallpaper is peeling from the walls, the floor has worn through in places, and the broken window whispers a song to me as the wind whistles by.
My spirits rise as I sit down on the floor and grab my notebook "This will be a story to remember" I say to the lonesome house.
© Copyright 2012 Dawn Charboneau (UN: mysake at Writing.Com).
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