By Alana Bremner
My clunky rain boots weigh down my feet as I walk down my porch stairs and onto the sidewalk. It’s time to start paying attention. What do I see? What do I hear? What do I taste? What do I feel? What do I touch?
I see gray. I hear the rain patting on the hood of my jacket, and I put my hands in my pockets to keep them dry. I touch the inside of my jacket pockets, and it feels soft. I feel bad that my mom bought me such an expensive rain jacket for Christmas. What I smell is familiar, but I don’t know how to describe it. It’s the smell that comes from cold rain hitting hot pavement. I hear the wind ruffling the leaves that are left on the trees.
I see the house across the street. It feels familiar because it looks just like mine. I hear the chain of the husky that is sometimes left outside, but I don’t see the dog. I have a bad taste in my mouth for the owner of that dog. Who owns a husky in a state this hot? Who leaves a dog outside in the rain? As I move on from the house, the husky scurries out from the side yard before the chain doesn’t allow it to go any further. I still have the bad taste in my mouth.
I see a BMW with a personalized license plate parked in a driveway. The house that the driveway belongs to is immaculately kempt. The front door is painted a rich blue, and the wood that surrounds it looks like it was just polished. I have a feeling that college kids don’t live in this house. I finally take one hand out of my pocket to touch the shrub closest to the sidewalk. Drops of water slide off the smooth leaves. I hear a door open and then slam, but I can’t tell which house the sound came from.
On the street parallel to mine, I don’t see anything familiar. The street is not lined with brick duplexes. Plastic cups and beer cans don’t litter front lawns. Sorority stickers are not plastered onto cars. Stir-crazy pets aren’t excitedly pressed up to the windows. I start to feel nostalgic for my own street.
Bremner is a senior studying public relations