It is warm for late September, the girl sheds her sweater, dropping it beside her on the lawn. She sighs a long sigh of discontentment as she takes stock of all the pine cones in the yard. It seems like picking up pine cones is all she ever does. She grumbles over to the old Ford pick-up that sits in the driveway and fumbles around for the large garbage bags. She hates the Ford pick-up. She is embarrassed that it lives at the same house as her. She can’t imagine how her dad tolerates driving the thing with no air conditioning, no power steering, and most importantly, no stereo.

      She picks up a few pine cones, then stops to wipe the sweat off her brow. Her eyes sweep across the yard, but she is blind to its beauty. She does not see the golden marigolds smiling at her. She does not see the tiny camellia bush. Barely a foot tall, it bravely struggles to put forth red blooms in the early autumn warmth. She does not see how the late afternoon sun makes tall shadow people from the stand of pine trees. All she sees are pine cones.

      The man across the street is raking his lawn, the girl thinks he looks silly in his sweatshirt and shorts. Wind chimes tinkling on the breeze add melody to his rhythm. But she does not hear the music. A towhee calls across the yard, she ignores it as she puts on her headphones and turns up the volume.

      She picks up a few more pine cones, then walks over to sit on the front porch bench. She grumbles to herself, trying to get comfortable on the ancient faded wood. She does not care that her grandfather put his very soul into this bench. She only knows it is old, her house is old, her dad’s truck is old, and this boring life is getting old. She closes her eyes, and turning up the volume on her Walkman, dreams of escape.

Copyright © 2005 Anna Clay