My body instantly relaxes as I put my headphones in my ears. I lean back against the rough bark of the oak tree, enjoying the shade. The cool grass tickles my legs and bare feet as the wind shifts. The leaves rustle above me, some falling down around me. Once they hit the ground, they somersault and collide with each other as the wind moves. When the leaves touch my skin, it feels like a soft kiss brushing against it before blowing away. A few acorns fall on my head, making a plopping sound as they do so. They are too heavy for the wind to move, so I brush them off with my hand.
My fingers roll an acorn between them, feeling the texture. The point is sharp, yet not sharp enough to puncture my skin. The cap feels bumpy, as if it has some sort of rash. It’s rounded toward the end, meeting the smooth bottom. The acorn ends in a blunt point. I throw it up in the air a few inches above my hand, throwing it higher with each toss. It’s light enough that my arm doesn’t get tired, yet heavy enough that the wind can’t blow it away.
Looking down at my lap, I see the blank page of my notebook. The page is flapping as the wind continues to blow, getting stronger yet weaker at the same time. The blank page disappears as the colored ones cover it as the wind changes direction. My hand stills its movement, the acorn bouncing off it, as I see the colors. Blue, yellow, green, black, and red. Beaches, forests, mountains, and rivers. So many memories in these small little drawings that were drawn by a teenage girl who was scared to make friends. So many memories…
***
Pages in my sketchbook turned from the wind, effectively losing my place. I grumbled as I looked for the blank page. Finding it quickly, I reveled in the fact that the wind was not able to upset my day anymore than it already was.
My dad told me we were moving again. His boss wanted him to restore this plant business that was going under in a little town called Bluewater. I looked it up earlier on the Internet just to see what I was getting myself into.
It was a small town, Bluewater, with a population of about three thousand people. It was near a river, called Bluewater River. There was one school in the town where all of the kids went, and that included the preschool, elementary school, middle school, and high school. It was right smack down in the middle of downtown, a very small downtown that was. The downtown area had these little boutique shops that didn’t exist in any other place. There were small restaurants that could seat about thirty-five to forty people each, yet each restaurant was a different type of food. There were small art galleries and candy shops and tailoring stores between these restaurants, making the town look more unique. Bluewater Fire Station was a tall three story building that had two garages for the trucks. Conveniently, the police station was right next to the fire station at the end of the block. It looked exactly the same, but had black paint instead of white.
The neighborhood seemed nice enough. The houses were close together, occasionally having a little patch of grass with a bench on it separating them. There were parks and trails surrounding every couple of houses. Community pools seemed very popular, since Bluewater had eight of them. There were forests that started where people’s backyards ended, and they seemed to go on forever. It looked like a welcoming place.
Yet it looked the same as every other place I’ve lived.
My mom and dad started taking out the packing boxes that morning. They wanted me to help, but I couldn’t. I was sick of moving around and being the new kid at a school where the students have known each other since the age of five.
I didn’t think I would bother to make any friends in Bluewater. I didn’t have any friends at the school I had currently gone to. We only lived in Stratford for two weeks, so I didn’t really have a chance to get to know anyone. But what’s the point in having friends when you were constantly moving around? You couldn’t go hang out or have fun or do anything with them. I was practically better off with just my parents until I finished my education.
As I thought this, I took out my colored pencils. Every place we moved to, I had to draw something that reminded me of it. This time I was drawing a children’s playground that had the sign “Stratford” at the entrance. There were no kids playing, since it was seven in the morning. The sun was barely hitting the tops of the trees, so the animals wouldn’t be out for another hour or so. I didn’t mind though, it’s peaceful. I enjoyed the silence.
***
My fingers skim the waxy, crayon covered drawing. They trace over the branches of the forest that lead to the slated roof of the two-story house. The yellow of the painted house is starting to fade, so I take my yellow crayon, coloring over it. I shade around the two pairs of French doors and both of their white painted balconies that are on the second floor. I’m careful to keep the crayon on the very edge of the white wooden posts that connect with the roof that is above the wrap-around-porch. No yellow gets on the fence that is on the edge of porch. Putting down the yellow crayon, I pick up the black one. I softly shade in the shadows of the trees on the roof of the house, on the beams and windows, and on the porch itself. I create little shadows on the slates of yellow wood that decorate the house frame. I recolor the door black because it has faded to gray.
I make some more touch ups here and there. I make the flowers on the windowsills of the windows brighter and the curtains look more flowy. I touch up the couches and the coffee table on the porch, adding a few more details to the blue pattern and wooden frame. I make the chimney look more like it has bricks rather than look like it was made out of concrete. When I get to the cracked flowerpot on the steps, I get engulfed in a memory…
