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| Words: 1661 | Submitted: 17-Apr-2011
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DescriptionEnglish Short Story
'Letting Go' by Steven Bonner
It is amazing how the simple things can mean the most to children. My childhood glimmers with memories of bubble wrap, climbing many a tree, visits to my grandparent's house and a solitary teddy bear named Duck. In the days before ipods, before computers were a necessity to me, there existed a world where every day was an adventure and the aim was to explore as much as possible as quickly as possible. I along with my younger sister lived in this world of dreams and imagination as children. To us, our house represented the whole world. I remember the day we had to say goodbye to it.
I stood in the garden. Our backyard was the place of many of our adventures. It was a child's dream. Our yard was green with life and even when winter's harsh weather settled in, smelled of summer all year long. A brick path weaved through the luscious grass in a snake like fashion, and garden beds, strategically placed around the edges of the path dotted the scene like blotches of colour in an impressionists painting. Images flashed from the depths of my mind. To the left, over our fence was where we had discovered the family of ducks that had decided to settle into our part of the loch. Over on the concrete was where the two of us had formed a band with tennis racket guitars. Embarrasingly, it is also where I was 'forced' into singing a duet to onlookers, thankfully only small birds and the occasional squirrel. All of which didn't seem too impressed but kept their comments to themselves. To the right was where I had lost my tooth amongst the tiny white pebbles of the driveway. Memories of lessons learned came forth. At the end of the path stood a tree, short in stature but potent in the fruit it bears. Pears. When I was five years old, I mashed the pears from the tree, mixed them with dirt and fed the mixture to my sister and myself. From that day onwards we were both taught the valuable lesson of not eating things from the ground. A bitterness surpassing that of the pears rose inside me. It's not fair. How could I have been forced to leave this garden that taught me so much?
I stepped into the house through the back door. The wood had split in places, and flakes of white paint fluttered to the ground with the sudden jolting of the door. As I brushed along the corridor leading to the front room with the familiar sounds of the creaking floor beneath me, I was warmly greeted by the sight of the ...
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