Georgia's House

Every day on my way to work, the train races past Georgia's old house. I still recall vividly the high brick walls and the tall white picket fence-gate; I still remember the lifeless fountain and every step up to her front door. Every day on my way to work, I remember the feeling of happiness; real happiness.

For Georgia's house represents everything about my youthful days, when life was so easy and simple. Georgia's house is the bright blue sky and those scorching summer days; the slop of sunscreen on bare back, and the swishing of towels and the passing of the soccer ball. Georgia's house is those warm summer evenings, and the pouring of vodka and the chinking of beer bottles, and the sound of Alex's guitar late into the night. Georgia's house is the sun and the sand, the lizard-preserving swimming pool and the Red Rooster runs, drunken twister and not looking back in anger, the meeting of new friends and the gathering of old ones.

Georgia's house is everything I've come to miss.