The Train Whistle. Writing Prompt Week 1
When I hear the sound of the train whistle, I think of home. Not home as in my house. Sadly, my current house is empty now and nothing but a series of four walls, failed do-it-yourself renovations, a daily reminder of poor decisions, and an insurmountable need for a contractor. The train whistle reminds me of the home that belonged to my grandmother-one of the very few people that loved me unconditionally. I can almost see the kitchen, tiny with painted over cabinets that had ridges here and there from the chipped paint of the last color-no one thought about sanding. As a child, I personally helped paint this kitchen every year or so when my grandmother needed a change of pace. I'm pretty sure it saw every color of the rainbow. There was a small table meant for four, but six were sometimes seated. I think of the worn shag carpeting in the living room and down the hall. It was in shades of orange and red and faded yellow. Oh, and lest I forget the floral couches, huge l...
