'A sense of place' - a writing prompt from Wordgathering.
I find that people do not understand me. They call me a city gal, they think I’m tough. I was born in a city, but I grew up in a ‘place.’
It had tall buildings, and broad streets, and an ice skating rink, and a large hill with a winding river running below. In winter the hill became a long, steep slide and we would whee! all the way down with bottoms glued to pieces of cardboard. In summer the hill was covered in the sunburst of dandelions that made me – a kid with allergies – both happy and miserable.
The place had an archway, and a sharp turn to the right, that led to a door. And behind that door it kept voices and memories, scents and sounds, touches and tastes, and reality laced with dreams... And that’s where it keeps me now, while a ghost of me wanders elsewhere.
Live for the Love of it,
The Happy Amateur
Yes:) Is that not a writer's dilemma?ReplyDelete
I love the sweet melancholy woven through this piece!
Thank you :-)ReplyDelete
love this, people don't understand me either.ReplyDelete
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