Personal Narrative-Nottinghill Drive

There is a clear divide within the house on 1503 Nottinghill Drive. My mother, Lisa, married to my father, Allen, effects everyone around her. My mother enjoys the safety inside her comfort zone and would rather bury herself in her electronics than spend a night out. By contrast, my father enjoys living life on the edge. His escape from our boring life comes twenty-six feet long and floats on water. The house, two stories, made of stucco and bricks, stands out from the rest. The house may look normal on the outside; however, within, chaos. The previous owners did not properly place the floors down and the cabinets, filled with disorganized and miscellaneous items. My father filled two of the rooms with unneccasary items, which decrease the value of the home. I felt proud to call my house my home. However, feelings change all the time. Every object in the house holds a memory. The times my whole family gathered in the swimming pool on a hot summer’s day, laughing and listening to music. When I sat on the old brown leather couch the day my dog came home for the first time. The time I performed a handstand against the wall and the picture fell on my finger, fracturing the fourth metacarpal. The day I moved upstairs, finally becoming an adult. The many Thanksgiving and
I remember staring at the wall with my face feeling hot and wet. The look of confusion and sadness on my father’s face brought tears to my eyes. This memory stained my room forever. This memory tainted my perception of the house. The house slowly transformed into a less innocent version of itself. The feeling of not wanting to forgive was the most painful of them all. I did not understand why she did what she did but it was a fact and we all have to accept facts. I knew that this was the event that would change my life forever. This made me want to leave the house that I so dearly loved before and make something better of