I’m not from rows of houses that all look the same. Where perfectly manicured lawns are kept and cared for with such attention they know they will never be free to grown long and mischievous-like.
I’m not from that house with two parents living inside. I’m not the daughter who has parents who like one another and prove it by hugging and kissing and laughing at one another’s lame-ass jokes.
I’m not from that house where juice came in little boxes with tiny straws that pierced an aluminum hole, which brings intense satisfaction after a day of shooting hoops in the driveway.
I’m not from that house where brothers protect and sisters are friends.
I’m not from that house where the smell of bacon wakes you up, where you come downstairs to a stack of silver dollar pancakes oozing melted butter, sitting next to a tall glass of Orange juice and your mother tells you to “eat up.”
I’m not from that house where the biggest concern was who will take Billy-Bob and Suzie-Q to Soccer and Cheerleading because their schedules collide with their over-priced piano lessons.
I’m not from that house where you crawl into bed at night in perfect peace, feeling the protective shield of fathers, house alarms and cute but hyper German Shepherds.
I’m not from that house where you leave your bike on the porch or the lawn overnight and fully expect the next day to find your adventure-catalyst to be there patiently waiting for you like a puppy dog anticipating playtime or an afternoon walk.
I’m not from that house where desserts are served. Where a big dinner is presented with green, yellow and red vegetables perfectly complimenting the main dish, which looks as elegant as the mother who prepared it.
I’m not from that house where kids grow and seasons change and new clothes are placed on the bed with tags on them, as if bought with a never ending supply of cash that was pulled off the Oak tree in the backyard next to the white picket fence lined with a row of tulips that smelled good.
I’m not from that house that bundles up around you with warmth and dignity when you come in from the crisp ,frosty air after pushing the snow blower. Where you sleep with the luxury of the window open because you want fresh air never imagining the possibility of not having warm air pumping through those vents.
I’m not from that house where a Fathers eyes are only for those his own age.
I’m not from that house at all.
I’m not from any home.
Copyright: Grace Biskie
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What you just read is my first assignment from the Creative Writing 101 class my sweet husband so brilliantly signed me up for!
Tonight was my first class & I am so excited. I feel like sort of a nerd for saying this, but learning to write more creatively is all I can think about lately.
My teacher said I could share my homework on my blog as long as you all promise not to write mean, corrective, critique-ish, constructive criticism type of comments. You can only say good things otherwise you might inadvertantly “crush” my “writing spirit.” So, no negative feedback please! 🙂 Of course, this only applies to my creative writing homework. You can dog out my other posts if you like.
Fyi, please excuse my use of a swear word if that sort of thing offends you. I was just experimenting on what it would be like to be “free,” in my writing in a world where people don’t judge you and get mad at you for swearing. I understand that some of you will feel angry and dissappointed in me for swearing. I hope that you won’t, but I’m sure that you will. I decided to leave it in there, because…. well, because I wanted to. I very rarely swear in “real life,” but I do in writing because it helps me to “get there,” in terms of emotions. And, when my book ever comes out, there will be a few perfectly placed swear words, so I may as well introduce that side of me now. I guess I hope you non-swearers don’t find me to be any worse of a person. But, if you do, oh well. I’m trying to live in the tension of being myself and wanting to please others and I understand I’ll never quite strike that balance perfectly.
Have a good night all,