Smoogis
04-27-2005, 02:54 PM
I wrote this essay awhile ago for class...erm, yes. We had to write a descriptive essay using techniques we were working on...The class is dedicated to learning the different rhetorical strategies for essay writing, and, yes. Don't like writing essays as much as fiction, but description and narrative are my strongest forms.
Since I was seven, I've lived in a relatively quiet house. When we had toured it, the room that would one day become mine was large and intimidating. Looking back, I wonder if the previous owners had planned it that way. In the middle of the room was a large king-sized bed with a tiny, angelic baby in the middle, soaking up the sunlight from two windows.
The view outside one of the windows is the same as it has been these nine years. Like a moat, snow surrounds the house as a still, peaceful river. Melted just right on the top layer, it matches the clouds above in its luster. The only disturbance in its shine is the tiny, patterned little holes that lead to my dog's place of rest. At the edge, right by the road, are three distinct trees, each with it's own special story. Each is an unsung hero of the ongoing war of life.
The left-most tree, Tutu's Tree, is bare of all leaves on each anniversary of my grandmother's death. Elegant in gray mourning, it had lost all its leaves when Tutu drew her last breath, as if the paused pulse of my grandmother had transferred to the life-sustaining sap of the tree. The twigs are still in place, thin and delicate like the quilts Tutu loved to make. It fills me both with sadness and memories when I look at it.
The next tree, in the middle, is proud and bold. The huge maple, stubborn in it's age, is hard to tame into something presentable, acceptable. Like a soul in a mid-life crisis, the powerful branches reach as far as they can, denying social acceptance and stigmas. Most kids looked for shapes in clouds when they were younger, yet I looked at this tree's great, sprawling branches for myself.
The final tree, My Tree, is nine years old. As if a god up there in the cloud-filled sky had given it to me, I witnessed a bird fly over an old, rotting stump and drop a lone seed onto it. As I grew, the tree somehow dug roots into the stump and began the process of life. A young, struggling tree on a foundation of age and wisdom, I feel a distinct kinship with it. Each tree guards against the noise and chaos outside, keeping this house quiet and peaceful.
I cannot imagine living elsewhere. Most people my age would be furious at moving because of the loss of friends, but I think my devastation would be more at the loss of myself.
Since I was seven, I've lived in a relatively quiet house. When we had toured it, the room that would one day become mine was large and intimidating. Looking back, I wonder if the previous owners had planned it that way. In the middle of the room was a large king-sized bed with a tiny, angelic baby in the middle, soaking up the sunlight from two windows.
The view outside one of the windows is the same as it has been these nine years. Like a moat, snow surrounds the house as a still, peaceful river. Melted just right on the top layer, it matches the clouds above in its luster. The only disturbance in its shine is the tiny, patterned little holes that lead to my dog's place of rest. At the edge, right by the road, are three distinct trees, each with it's own special story. Each is an unsung hero of the ongoing war of life.
The left-most tree, Tutu's Tree, is bare of all leaves on each anniversary of my grandmother's death. Elegant in gray mourning, it had lost all its leaves when Tutu drew her last breath, as if the paused pulse of my grandmother had transferred to the life-sustaining sap of the tree. The twigs are still in place, thin and delicate like the quilts Tutu loved to make. It fills me both with sadness and memories when I look at it.
The next tree, in the middle, is proud and bold. The huge maple, stubborn in it's age, is hard to tame into something presentable, acceptable. Like a soul in a mid-life crisis, the powerful branches reach as far as they can, denying social acceptance and stigmas. Most kids looked for shapes in clouds when they were younger, yet I looked at this tree's great, sprawling branches for myself.
The final tree, My Tree, is nine years old. As if a god up there in the cloud-filled sky had given it to me, I witnessed a bird fly over an old, rotting stump and drop a lone seed onto it. As I grew, the tree somehow dug roots into the stump and began the process of life. A young, struggling tree on a foundation of age and wisdom, I feel a distinct kinship with it. Each tree guards against the noise and chaos outside, keeping this house quiet and peaceful.
I cannot imagine living elsewhere. Most people my age would be furious at moving because of the loss of friends, but I think my devastation would be more at the loss of myself.