Blog Prompt #11

One place that I can distinctly remember, and this is going to sound strange to hear it said like this, is my house. This is still my family home, still the place I return to on breaks, but back when I was a kid, it was quite a different place than it is now. So different in fact, it feels like an entirely different house, sometimes. The home from my past was brighter in every respect. There was a distinct summer-y feel about being at home--with plenty of room, a yard that was sprawling and well kept. Grass and big, shady trees enveloping our brick house, sunlight brightly streaming through to light up patches of cement or lawn. If I were to go back and photograph it, the photo would show life--light and the bright colors of carefully planned gardens and children's clothes. Today, this place is much smaller. I can see the top of the roof of the house, the decayed trees, overgrown and wild-looking. I stand in the corner of my driveway, and survey the front yard, once a spacious valley, now a cramped ditch. The plants of the garden have outgrown their plots. The colors of the house, and the surrounding landscape is appreciably grayer. The house is wilder looking than the surrounding suburban plots. A few broken pots line the porch rail, and four, instead of two, cars sit in the driveway. I am alone. Our neighbors can be heard but are too far away to be seen. It is quiet. Faint reflections can be seen in the kitchen window.