Prewrite+One

Prewrite 1 The breeze runs through age-old lace curtains, handed down generation from generation. The dull drone of some far off tree, crackling and snapping under the weight of its old age, reminiscent of the cynical old man in his giant easy chair. Crack. Snap. Pop. The old woman at the stove, working at a fresh batch of whatever mix it will be today. The breeze tells us that there is nothing to worry about, that the stress of one’s everyday life is far away, slowly dying with every turn of the old woman’s mixing spoon. It smells fresh, like it has just rained, even though one can feel the pleasing burn of the sun when he steps out on the red oak porch. The clothes line that once held the burden of a real household now swinging in the breeze, enjoying his retirement from much heavier times. This house, painted so neutral: white, light yellow splinters in the summer sun, and cracks in the bitter winter’s wrath. It should have been freshly painted in the spring, but it doesn’t matter in Windham. The house is a sanctuary, a resting place, a home. A walk up the steps to the old country bedrooms is a walk through my history, our history. We can look at old uncle what’s his name, and the funny young boy in a tie. A picture of people long dead and gone, worthless to most, of most importance for us. We can sip the cool tap water from the faucet, in some ways better than any bottle we can buy. There is peace, ultimate rest. Peace in Windham has a lot to do with home, which has a lot to do with escape. Windham, Maine is a sleepy, resting place. A place to go when there seems to be nowhere else. A place where a box of Maine blueberries, firewood, and a raincoat could very easily last a lifetime. Windham, Maine is the very definition of home, peace, and rest.