Personal Narrative-Home

Searing heat, no breeze, and glaring sun attempted to transform me into the human equivalent of a crispy baked potato. It was a sleepy Sunday afternoon, twelve on the dot by my wristwatch. I plopped down on the wooden doorstep of my father's trailer, shielded from the floating, flaming ball of assorted rock and metal in the sky, by a canopy of corrugated tin. The sky was a vibrant, yet non-aggressive, shade of azure, interwoven with swirls of pale cotton. The sun shone on the majestic, yet barren, Nevada mountains, but wasn't very merciful to the flora of the area. A few dried up weeds, thirsty trees too late to be saved, and gangs of prickly cacti dotted the dry, dusty landscape, but not much else. The