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Descriptive Essay On The Old House

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The scenery is still very warming like a puppy that is held close to your chest. The old water tower remains standing protruding through the earth. Dust floats in the air, creating clouds, when we drive down the jerky road. I look around, nothing has changed from last time I was here, the grain bins still reflect the sun. Each corn stalk stood tall and firm making it difficult for me to see what mom and I always drive for. The pressure on the gas pedal increased giving the car a jolt of energy like a kid who has just three bags of candy. Then it came into view, with the tree swing still hanging in the backyard waiting for someone. I pulled into the carmel driveway shifting the car into park allowing it to rest and closed the door with a “clunk”. As I turned around the house stood silently still, I took a deep filling my lungs with the most amazing feeling. The old house was losing part of its skin producing tiny, white flakes arranged around the yard, and the shingles on top of the roof were trying to hang on the best they could. I took my first step towards the front door walking up the sturdy, metal bicycle ramp, noticing the tiny slots that allowed you to view what was beneath you. When I raised my head I realized the front door had not changed at all, the orange paint was still faded and was starting to show more white but not much. It was as if someone took orange watercolor to a piece of paper. The polished door knob twisted as I opened the door releasing a familiar,

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