Personal Narrative: Burkley Home

Sometimes I dream that I am again standing at the pathway of the Burkley house. The chimney billowed with smoke, and the magnolia bushes in full bloom; like they once did in that spring time air which curled around your every movement. I dream of again clomping my over-sized shoes against the ever twisting stone path, catching rain drops and petals in my unkempt hair. I will not lie; I do long for the Burkley house, for the essence of my youth still stays trapped in those lengthy hallways. I often forget the blizzards that struck, the lighting that cast us in darkness, the people I met. I seem to only remember the house itself ... the candlesticks that burned bright on rainy days, that flickered so violently, you would swear a ghost was pushing …show more content…
It was filled with ripening fruit trees and undying rows of willows whose branches fell kindly among the flowers. You could hear splashes of raindrops as they hit the ground before your feet with wind dancing a warning of storm around your arms. I ignored winds warnings, for bearing witness to cold rain upon hot summers shoulders seemed rewarding enough. My hair would tangle and knot. It took days for my hair to go back to smooth. My aunt would struggle to get the comb through. "Must you always do this?" she'd question, "I reckon you'll become a cloud one of these days, and you'll then be able to watch the rain from the sky." I admired her words as I'd look carelessly at the golden silver mirror I was sat in front of; there were chips in the paint, meticulously placed, almost purposely. The words would ring endlessly in my ears like torture, but one that wasn't bothersome, rather completely and utterly thought …show more content…
Wind howled at sunset leafs and the swollen silver moon rose from its uncoiled grave as the sun nestled once more into the grip of heaven's edge. Those nights you could smell autumn in the air, and even a deaf man would have heard the season’s calls, light and entangled with icy breath. The pathway flooded with crisp yellow leaves turned soggy from mid-night's rain. The gate would rust over and I would often think to myself that it was stardust the heavens had sprinkled onto the exit. It was no true omen. I suppose my mind made it one to justify my want to run from Burkley. It was the burning bushes, I think, that kept me from constantly leaving. They reminded me of fire and that to me was beautiful to see, silhouetted on a cold day. The leaves didn't seem like that to me, they seemed like every other thing at Burkley,