When I Wake In The Morning I Only Need Two More Miracles To Be A Saint
Does anyone else have a place they keep in their minds, all pristine and polished? Somewhere you can retreat to and just be alone, somewhere you keep clean and untouched by the carnal and scummy influences of everyday life? That's what Florida is to me. Our house there is always immaculate in my imagination, swaying palm trees greet you at the end of the driveway. Palm trees. Every vacation, upon our arrival, Florida always smelled different. Maybe it was just because of the airport's air vents, but Florida smelled... exotic. It smelled like palm trees and sunscreen and warm water, a far cry from the pine trees and cold Atlantic waters from home. Palm trees and pine trees. They set such a different scene. Pine trees remind me of a quiet, obscure mansion in a spy movie that's occupied by someone wealthy and loaded with the latest technology in the most scenic and untouched of locations. Palm trees remind me of teenage freedom and rebellion, of long days at the beach being thankful for having skin that tans easily, of hot car rides to amusement parks.
Palm trees greet you at the end of the driveway, which is technically a dead end street, but it's only one hundred feet long, hardly deserving of being called a "street". The actually driveway is a slab of concrete just long enough for our lipstick red Jeep. The house is yellow with a brown roof, a little lamp post is at the end of the walkway to the front door, either side of it lined with little spider plant looking ferns. To the right of the door is a garden with a little blue bird bath and pink flowers.
All the furniture is admittedly outdated, all of it except my great aunt's Lazyboy recliner. The carpet is moss green over a brown linoleum floor, and the only piece of artwork is a close up of a corner of an Italian street. Our dining room has a wall made of mirrors, reflecting your every move. Even feet moving under the table. Every bad angle of your face as you chew, it's suddenly acceptable, because along with all those horrid images, it reflects light beautiful throughout the open floor plan. There's a day bed behind the table, and a bird cage is suspended mid-air with a very real looking bird inside that easily deceives people. The kitchen is miserably small, but it's all white and cheery blue, with little knick knacks on the window sills. The bathroom had been redone a few years ago, and all the buttery tiles were brand new and beautifully clean.
There are two normal bedrooms, one is my grandmothers. The master bedroom. One huge bed with a canopy is in the middle of the room, a little table in front of the window for when she was still doing work despite being on an alleged vacation. Her closet is beside, and usually her shoes dominated the small space between bed, desk, and closet doors. There's also a dresser immediately across from the bed, and a TV suspended in the corner of the room. The other bedroom is all pink and fluffy, containing two twin beds, a Victorian chair in the corner, a white dresser, and a TV hanging above. The last room is actually the garage, where the car is stored usually, except for when there are too many people or just young adults staying there. Two fold down beds, one rickety old TV, and the old 70's furniture that couldn't be disposed of. Behind the house, we have an orange tree ever growing.
I keep my house in my mind, I go through it every night. I walk through every room from my bedroom in Maine, scenic nowhere, staring at the forest through my window. I put away the things I'd left out from the night before, the book I'd been reading, the outfit I had decided not to go with. I check it all, make sure it's all as I left it. Untouched by sadness, unplagued by the same things which haunt daily life. Untroubled with hard decisions, unbroken from stress. I clean my house and live alone, sipping tea in the oversize lounge chair, and driving the car to the supermarket and back because I remember the route.
Palm trees greet you at the end of the driveway, which is technically a dead end street, but it's only one hundred feet long, hardly deserving of being called a "street". The actually driveway is a slab of concrete just long enough for our lipstick red Jeep. The house is yellow with a brown roof, a little lamp post is at the end of the walkway to the front door, either side of it lined with little spider plant looking ferns. To the right of the door is a garden with a little blue bird bath and pink flowers.
All the furniture is admittedly outdated, all of it except my great aunt's Lazyboy recliner. The carpet is moss green over a brown linoleum floor, and the only piece of artwork is a close up of a corner of an Italian street. Our dining room has a wall made of mirrors, reflecting your every move. Even feet moving under the table. Every bad angle of your face as you chew, it's suddenly acceptable, because along with all those horrid images, it reflects light beautiful throughout the open floor plan. There's a day bed behind the table, and a bird cage is suspended mid-air with a very real looking bird inside that easily deceives people. The kitchen is miserably small, but it's all white and cheery blue, with little knick knacks on the window sills. The bathroom had been redone a few years ago, and all the buttery tiles were brand new and beautifully clean.
There are two normal bedrooms, one is my grandmothers. The master bedroom. One huge bed with a canopy is in the middle of the room, a little table in front of the window for when she was still doing work despite being on an alleged vacation. Her closet is beside, and usually her shoes dominated the small space between bed, desk, and closet doors. There's also a dresser immediately across from the bed, and a TV suspended in the corner of the room. The other bedroom is all pink and fluffy, containing two twin beds, a Victorian chair in the corner, a white dresser, and a TV hanging above. The last room is actually the garage, where the car is stored usually, except for when there are too many people or just young adults staying there. Two fold down beds, one rickety old TV, and the old 70's furniture that couldn't be disposed of. Behind the house, we have an orange tree ever growing.
I keep my house in my mind, I go through it every night. I walk through every room from my bedroom in Maine, scenic nowhere, staring at the forest through my window. I put away the things I'd left out from the night before, the book I'd been reading, the outfit I had decided not to go with. I check it all, make sure it's all as I left it. Untouched by sadness, unplagued by the same things which haunt daily life. Untroubled with hard decisions, unbroken from stress. I clean my house and live alone, sipping tea in the oversize lounge chair, and driving the car to the supermarket and back because I remember the route.