Where I Come From

When a place is remembered, it is never forgotten. Places of beauty are never forgotten, the smell of morning rain on the grass, sunlight dancing off the waves of the blue green sea. Where each cloud moves to the beat of the drums, the players sit around a warm, contented fire, while the black cosmos hovers over small beautiful villages. Sun-ripened wheat sways gently in the soft breeze.

Where I come from there are courtyards filled with flowers, trees hang limply as their leaves wave sadly in the cool autumn wind. Green afternoon skies fade to purple as the stars twinkle brightly, defying the darkness soon to follow. Tree vines twist and twine as the fog rolls away in the late morning, a flock of birds cast colossal shadows across the noisy, sunny schoolyard. Busy streets criss-cross along the city, a small, grey, stray cat bounds across a long line of cars. Dirty shops, old, abandoned, mud clings to a tree as the storm passes, leaving a faint trail of damp. A long black cat slinks silently, swiftly towards a hidden bush, waiting. This place is where I come from.

Where time passes slowly while the sun descends, giving in to the silver light of the solitary moon, vibrant lights blur, illuminating the city in the otherwise dark night. Evergreens soft needles offer shelter from the rain, an overgrowth of wisteria guards the garden of sunlight, planes imitating the swallows, flying over the clouds, turning villages, cars, and people in to toys. Snow blows through the air, and the only place to hide is under the branches of a shivering maple, pigeons swoop and glide searching for food dropped among crowds of people in the streets. Tall, bleak houses lined up in rows, each bleaker than the last. Farm land, rolling hills, and beyond that are distant purple mountains, hardly standing out against the dull gray sky. This is where I come from.

Text by Lucie MacAulay