My
Neighborhood My neighborhood is encompassed by walls I cannot bring myself to exit. It contains the Eiffel Tower of Paris and the recording studio of The Smiths. My neighborhood welcomes A Man Who Mistook his Wife for a Hat and An Unquiet Mind. My neighborhood feels safe, yet cold. Although in my neighborhood I cannot shoot an arrow with a bow, I can make angels on turquoise snow. In my neighborhood, the single inhabitant stays up late at night. One may even call it the neighborhood that never sleeps. Although my neighborhood may be considered one, it lacks liveliness. It is devoid of company. It is lonely. I have little communication with the outside world, only speaking to others outside of my neighborhood when in need of food. When I smell the aroma of the savory black beans of my childhood seeping through the cracks of the walls, I scream out and my mother brings me the delicacy. As the steam dances in the air and enters my nostrils, I am nostalgic for the time when I used to cook those beans. This was back when I trekked beyond the wall. Back in those days, my neighborhood had visitors--visitors who were lively, energetic and enthusiastic. As I reminisce about the distant past, my lips curl further into an inverted U, as I am aware that time is an unattainable reality. I can see some of these former visitors as they attend my school. My school is in my neighborhood, as it exists in a black box better known as my computer. When I see my friends virtually, all who live beyond the wall, that inverted U slowly flattens out and teases at a smile.
Daniela
Woldenberg
50
