Gabrielle Wessels
Advanced Writing-Conrad
22 October 2012
Descriptive Final IIII
Term I Block III
Home is Where the Heart is
Manchester is where I have grown up to memorizing my home town and the people who live here. I’ve created unforgettable memories and robotic routines. Families love one another, and citizens recognize each other. The stars illuminate the sky and it’s a dwelling where I can coil up in my bed and have an impervious rest. It’s the place I call home.
It is a hot afternoon and traveling past my neighbor’s lawns are birds chirping in their trees. Straight in front of me is my old white house with rugged black shingles on the roof, and in the back of my house is a rustic wooden porch created by hand. To the left of my house is standing an old maple tree and its large posture towers over the house and kisses the roof with its leaves. I step over the nearby curb and walked through the backyard of my pale house. As I face the front of the house I glance at the deep cracking line going through the middle of the driveway grass is sprouting out of. In front of me is a large enough garage having two cars sleeping in it. I squeeze between the two cars, march up the stairs, which lead to the white shiny door, and enter the house. When I walked into my house I was greeted with a warm smile by my father. “How was school?” He asks in a kind voice while scavenging the cupboard for food.
“Fine.” I reply in a monotone voice as I sat my backpack on the black and white checkered floor of the kitchen.
“Do you have homework?” My dad asks while pulling out a bag of chips from the cupboard.
“I always do.” I sigh.
“Hop to it.” He commands while walking away to his room with the bag of chips. I don’t enjoy school; it’s always the same routine every single day; wake up, do hair, get dressed and go to school. Manchester is full of routines. Everyone is programmed to do the same thing every day; whether it’s going out to get coffee in the morning, always eating out for lunch at the same restaurant and ordering the same food, or walking around the neighborhood for exercise. I see the same people do the same things. It’s disturbing knowing for years someone is wasting their days doing the same routine. Manchester is a little highway town. It’s filled with semi-trucks, off road trucks, small run down town cars, and loud roaring trains rattling as they pass through. The town is consumed by close suburban houses looking exactly like each other. Manchester’s core is surrounded by traffic lights, rustling motors, cheap thrift stores, and decorative food parlors.
