my home
...t my dorm room desk, I can close my eyes and smell the new mulch and rosemary from my herb garden; I can see the big, chipping, white columns and blue-gravel path; I can hear my sisters in the backyard flipping on the trampoline or my cats disturbing Bluejays from under the feeders; I can feel the sun baking down and the topsoil in my hands; I can taste the snow dropping fat flakes on my over-stretched tongue and the teasingly tiny drops of sweet dew from a single honeysuckle. No matter where I go, I can always close my eyes and be home in an instant. When thinking of my house, my first thought is my driveway. Until this past year, there were two bushes of red berries at the mouth of the down-sloping drive that my friend, Sally and Laura, used to help me mix with sand and turn into “strawberry oatmeal.” At the base is a drainage grate that makes a distinctive clank whenever my mom or dad drives over it on his or her way home from work. The carport was my roller-skating rink and the side-porch, a giant cathouse even now. Along the back wall of my house I see the gravel path leading to swings and sandboxes, a trampoline and herb garden. This path...