A Small Slice of Heaven

This was an essay that I wrote for my college English I class. She told us to write a descriptive essay about an object. I reread this after about a year and enjoyed it enough to share.

You always know when you are getting close to the coast. It is as if the atmosphere shifts, and you involuntarily feel the peace and tranquility of the endless horizon. The sky seems to be a more vivid blue and the water imitates its every move as you go over the bridges to and from the different islands and keys. Even the people you observe seem to be more content, as if it is because of the radiating peace and serenity of the environment.

As I step out of the cramped interior of my car, I inhale the sweet but brackish aroma coming from the depth of the waters surrounding the unpopulated coast. For a few moments, I cannot even open my eyes, my mind just allowing me respire deeply, in and out. Faintly, there is even a faint odor of a family grilling something for their lunch somewhere close by.

Once I am able to open my eyes, I take in the petite family cottage that has been passed down through our relatives, to my grandparents and then to my mother. The quaint style and peeling paint from the years of salt in the air give me the sensation of feeling at home. In some spots, you can see the different shades of white that have been painted over and over again to attempt to cover the brutal assault from the sea and sun. The familiar screech of the front step reminds me of times past. On the porch there is a tarnished wooden bench swing, slowly rocking from the light breeze coming around the house from the ocean.

Inside the cottage, time seems to be an illusion. It’s as though you have walked into the past, nothing showing the period that we live in. To the right is the family room, where there is no television or video games, as in most family homes, but a couch and love seat that are discolored from years of abuse. As well as an antiquated record player in the corner of the room covered in grime, and a mountain of records stacked on both sides that seem to be layered with dust from time without movement. The wooden shelf contains an abundance of overused books and a number of board games to pass the time. To the left are two tiny bedrooms. Both rooms have hand sewn quilts, containing more color than a sunset, draped over the queen sized beds. Straight ahead brings you to the country style kitchen. There is an aged stove and refrigerator, covered in scratches and dents from years of use, and in the corner is a petite breakfast nook. I touch the cracking and peeling wallpaper, remembering that I helped my grandmother put up the elaborate print countless years ago.

As I stand in the kitchen, the sound of the ocean crashing against the sand outside draws me to the transparent glass backdoor. I can’t help but smile as I get my first glance at the magnitude of the ocean. The door is heavy with the wind as I fight my way towards the beautiful blue bliss that is the ocean connecting seamlessly to the sky. As I step out onto the screened-in porch, my stomach leaves me with enthusiasm as I recall all the summers spent sprinting from the porch to the water and back again as a child. The wearing on the backside of the cottage is a great deal more prevalent than the front. The ocean and wind have shown no mercy on the walls and screens of the porch. But this is still the most favored room in the house. It holds a bulky table and six worn chairs, which is where meals are enjoyed, and two rocking chairs that look out into what feels like infinity.

Once I step out of the screened-in porch, the sun crashes into me with no compassion, the heat fighting its way to my very core. In front of me lay stone steps leading down a path to the shoreline. Thick carpets of weeds have been growing on each side of the path without interruption, taking over the area with no hesitation. Barely visible is a picnic table that seems to have been swallowed by the sand and the remains of a fire pit, where, in the past, we would take pleasure in roasting hot dogs and s'mores. As I walk towards the soothing sound of the waves, I kick off my shoes without caring where they end up. The stone steps seem to be cooking the soles of my feet; the sand is a welcome relief. I stop and slowly wiggle my toes deep into the sand, sensation tingling up through my entire body.

As I get to the intersection of land and sea, I hesitate for just a moment, anticipating the amazing coolness of the salt water. The surf rushes and takes over my toes and then my feet, not being disturbed by the infinitesimal being that has just entered it. I turn and look at the cottage. It seems so diminutive after looking into the infinite horizon, but this is my new home, and I am looking forward to the arduous task of making it like new again.

Author's Note

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