For eighteen years, I looked out of my window and saw hills in the distance. You could see the observatory that formed part of my school logo.

The land is too flat.

There were trees on top of the hills, I knew Worlebury Woods were always there, at the edge of the horizon. When I was about five, I remember walking on a path through the woods in my wellington boots as my feet squished in the mud.

The trees are too close.

      At the back of my garden, marking its end, is a wall of red brick. I remember being really surprised when I found out it didn’t belong to us, but our neighbour, as it was also part of his garage.

It’s too open.

Right outside my window is my back garden, only a little square of grass bordered by some little bushes. I’ve played out there more times than I can count.

The lawn is too large.

My window itself consists of three panes of glass. I leave the narrow one at the top open most of the time, but the large one at the side is only open when it’s really hot.

The window is too narrow, the window is too high.

There are patterns on the net curtains that I can easily push aside. Then there’s the main curtains. When I was six, my aunt made them for me herself.

There is a metal mesh blocking the way.

For eighteen years, I looked out of my bedroom window and saw my home. Now I see Vanderbilt. I love the trees and the greenery, I take photographs to preserve the memory, but I am not home. Everything here is strange to me.


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