My parents reside in a small neighborhood called, Darby Place. They live in a box-shaped house with a basement, two-stories, and an attic embellished with three dormer styled windows. The backyard is composed of my mother's beautiful plants, and a large pond holding a numerous amount of bright orange coy fish. This weekend the surrounding trees are in the climax of their autumn bloom, with leaves mirroring the orange in the coy fish below. I am here with my family celebrating a Thanksgiving feast composed of all the predictable side dishes. We have been eating those predictable left-overs for days, and today I return back to my place above the kite shop in Savannah.
Every time I come back to my parents, I devote time to find some sort of treasure to bring back. This time I am stuffing my suitcase with a mink fur shawl of my late Grandma Molloy, a birdcage to add to my collection, and an old photograph of my mum's first communion.
When I have children I am going to dress them up everyday as if it were their first communion.
They will probably hate it, but their kids will love it; having old photographs of their parents to blog about and to show all.
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