Our class went twenty minutes over today. I wandered down the ice-covered sidewalk afterward and my head was boiling. Through a little yellow window I saw the inside of a little yellow house--the molding, the family portraits, the bookshelves. I love yellow houses.
Throughout my entire childhood I hated brick houses, even though my father would tell me that WE had a brick house so that if the grass burned our house wouldn't burn too.
When my parents divorced, my mom and us kids moved to a little yellow house. It felt safe.
When my mom remarried, we moved to a brick house. Life was exciting. I was living in Detroit. My family was expanding. I changed my mind. I would like brick houses! Maybe someday I would even live in a brick house!
But now, eight years later, I can't do it. I don't like brick houses. I love my family, of course. (This isn't some sort of strange symbolism.) But I don't like brick houses, I like little yellow houses.
About Me
- dandelionia
- "Raised in the wilds of western Michigan, transplanted to the wilds of Detroit, and eventually came of age in the sprinkler-soaked grasses of Grosse Pointe, I am a Michigan girl bone and sinew." --What I wrote a bazillion years ago when I first had a blog and loved (still do) being pretentious. Everything eles you need to know--live in Kalamazoo now with Drew, have many animals, an MSW, and a whole lot of cheese.
3 comments:
I loved our little yellow house! Sometimes, I wish I was back there, you and all the kids.
Good times, good times Ali! :)
why don't you have any pictures on your blog?
I like your memory thing though
ummm, I think brick houses are safer.
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