the sky was orange

An excerpt from another essay I included in my portfolio:

One night though, I stretched out those limbs in the cold, pulling each muscle and tendon in every direction. It was raining, and the night sky was orange and restlessness was plucking at my mind. Kimi and I stripped off our socks and sweaters and ran out into the street, leaving the door open and the night pouring into the warm living room. We stood in the middle of the intersection and stretched out our muscles into the falling rain, letting it run down our skin and collect in the threads of our clothes. Then we began running, we ran in every direction and ended up back where we started. The world felt suddenly so much closer. I felt like if I picked any street and let my feet take me across the ran slick ground, I would very quickly end up in whichever and every destination my mind was set on. I could feel every moving part in my body. I could feel every moving part of the ground and the sky and the rain that fell around my feet and stuck in my hair. And, if I stood still enough I could feel everything that did not move in the world.

When the rain began to seep into my blood and send chills up and down my body, we walked back to our house. We lay on the floor of our living room and let the warmth of the carpet begin the thaw. I could not move my fingers and toes, but my head was racing. We stared up at the ceiling of our living room, dome shaped and expansive. The walls and the ceiling never meet, they melt together at the edges and balloon up to gather at the old chandelier with the gold painted roses that hang down. Every room of the house has secrets that can no longer be answered. There are tiny doors that lead to nowhere and cabinets placed at mysterious levels. You have to climb into my closet to get to the skirts at the back, and climb into a two-foot door to get into the attic. The huge expanse of a backyard is full of trash and treasures buried beneath the dead grass. But, as we lay on the carpet in the living there was no mystery or question. The world was clear and the ceiling was filled with pictures. There were no dull spots of stars, more like a Van Gogh of swirling stucco. In the swirls we saw cats, horses, train engines, and clouds of smoke.

christmas sky

Another excerpt from a personal essay I am working on for my class. Ps. Anything that does not sound completely factual is usually because that is what my memory makes it out to be. I do try and be as honest as possible.
I can't wait until the holidays. I miss yall.

Our Christmas tree was covered in stars. My mom had bought a new star-shaped ornament every year since my parents first got married, each one completely different and unique. There was the set of three sparkling glass stars that descended in size, like the three sisters that delicately fingered them before placing them in the highest branch in reach. There was “The Queen” and “The Princess” stars, round orbs that lived up to their title. There were traditional five-pointed stars, and those that looked more like bursts of light that hung on loops of golden thread. Some had dates etched on the back, or special years engraved on gold and silver, and some just had stories needing to be told. One year, while Barbara Streisand sang her version of “Jingle Bells,” my sister and I spun in circles until our feet jumbled beneath us and we tumbled into the artificial tree in our living room, causing injury to a large chunk of the galaxy. Glass spines broke off like tiny icicles, and five-pointed became four in some cases. Those ornaments still made it on the tree every year, unwrapped carefully from tissue paper compartments. Mama always talked about how when the day came that the years had gathered her enough stars, she would hang only the night sky on those branches.