Personal Narrative-Home

The chilling wind pierced through my skin like a thousand sharp knives as I walked to the bus stop that morning. I never did remember it being so far; I was walking through a never ending desert of bitter pain; the white, cold snow of the ground reminded of endless sheets of linen that covered every inch of the land beneath me. It was strange yet almost comforting. I opened my eyes differently when I awoke that morning, something felt different; felling different in this case is rare. This town, this very street; I never realized how everything had always been the same in this town.
I looked around as I walked to the bus stop like I do every Friday morning. Every house down that road was lined up like egger children waiting in a school line, it had the same wooden oak doors at the end of every walkway; with elegant; cotton white shutters that surrounded the same crystal clear windows that you’d see on every house when you walked down Blair street. It was bitterly plain. It’s astonishing how isolated I felt just in mind; I never did understand how one could wake up and do the same exact thing as they did just the day before, That’s exactly what people did on Blair street; and they never

I sat down and looked at the single trees that were planted one by one in the little existing yards of every house. Still nothing has changed, nor was I expecting it to. The only thing that was wondering in my mind was how silent everything was, the sounds of birds chirping or people conversing were non-existent. Why is silence and icy bitterness only found when the unexpected snow arrived that morning? There were no cars driving down Blair street that morning, the lonely mail man didn’t wonder the streets delivering mail, kids didn’t frantically ride their bikes in a rush to school, silence was only found that