My grandfather, a troublesome brute he is, is a very intelligent man. I do hate his bothersome inquiries, though. These are aggravating questions regarding the defining of unusual words. Or telling him about every small detail of any subject, or even getting unjustly scolded for the way I walk, talk, or am. After much vexation on my part he struck something worth while. He once asked me to sum up my entire life in one word, in his mind this word obviously would be an adjective. But my one word was not fun, happy, bad, or nice, nope, it wasn't even an adjective. My one word was "home".
"HOW is that possible," he exclaimed. "Home is a noun, it does NOT describe!"
My only reply was that I guessed it wasn't a word that should describe, but there was no other word more the job. he didn't understand and I don't expect anyone but me to either. Any location can be a door into your mind, your memories. What you did is just as important as where, and whom you did it with. This location, my home, is the place which holds all my life, my memories and all the adjectives that could describe me. So technically I did not answer his question with one adjective, I answered it with them all.
This neighborhood is certainly a beautiful place. On my right the Hudson ripples like a cloth in the wind. And on my left, gray-teal colored bricks and square patches of grass cchecker the ground in one straight, long line. On every patch of grass a tall tree stands, small green leaves and white-peppermint blossoms color the once branches. Behind the bricks and grass, black benches sit stiffly lining a long, jagged, metal fence. This fence encloses a feild of flowers and grass decorate the ground like a Christmas tree. The feild lies attractively in front of the back of a large, gray apartment building, bubbling over with bustling people. it is very pleasant, for the buildings only standto one side in a straight line. The rest of the area is very spacious and opened. Everything smells like fresh cut grass, the lick of the splashing river, and the concrete which suggests of salty, earthy, wet clay.
I hear joyful sounds, full of life, like the laughter of a child in a playground nearby. I see them swing bak and forth, tilting their heads backwards in pure bliss. The laughter is from deep inside, a sensation taken for granted. When you reach the top it's like you're flying in the bright blue sky, swooping over the earth like a bird. And when you come to the last millisecond before returning back to the stable earth, you're really not sure you will ever go down. That is the most amazing feeling of all, it's as if somene is tickling you all over or the chills that run down your spine sometimes. And the whole situation feels as if you're watching a film in slow-motion, sitting there endlessly, swooping in the bright blue sky. The entire scene is so wonderful, the expressions on the childrens' faces while the backround of this delight is the rustle of the leaves in the wind and the murmur of splashing waves.
All is well and I know it, for if my grandfather asked me what shape my neighborhood would be if it was a shape, my only reply would be square, because a square must always be perfect. Every peice, and every angle.
The story was posted on 2004-03-26