Between the trees, I can see the mountains. They are the size of my thumb, when I bring it up to the horizon and place it right between my eye and the sun. Shrouded by a purple mist, they emanate a quiet power, a serene majesty--if only I could reach out and sift my hands through the knobby green, I imagine that the mountains have the texture of the old green rug that used to sit at the base of my brother’s bed.
When we first bought the rug, it was the color of conifers--a deep, comforting, evergreen so soft that we would rub our dimpled fingers through the fibers until they came out into our palms. We spilled milk on it, orange juice, pomegranate seeds, until the fibers grew hard, sticky, and crusty. We played on it with our cars and our legos, we made tatters out of its off-white tassels. After ten years of weathering, we rolled it up and threw it in the waste receptacle that sits by our mail-box without a second thought. My memories are interrupted beeping. A yellow construction vehicle, with wheels like a tank, reverses down the road. In its iron claw, it holds the rocky tatters of a mountain’s tassels--I think of the rug, and I realize that the mountains aren’t so different.
Anitha, this is a really nice piece of writing. Just like Addie in her blog entry, you did a great job of making a connection between something you saw and something you remembered. The trick is to capture the thing you saw well and to deliver the emotion of the memory, and then you have a shot at an image that can really impact a reader. I think you did a great job!
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