Thirty-One
JULY-19 YEARS OLD
Louisiana is in full summer mode. The temperatures are well into the eighties and nineties. Every Saturday and Sunday morning you can hear lawnmowers going and every afternoon you can smell the fresh cut grass.
Sitting in my comfy, plush reading chair that Mom and Dad gave me for Christmas, which proudly rests right beside the beautiful, bay window in my living room, I write. On really clear days, like today, I can see the cemetery. It always inspires me. Once I finished my current poem, I decide to make a cup of tea and read a little before I have to leave for work.
A knock on the door stops me from my journey to the kitchen. I look through the peephole to see Mr. Arnold, our friendly mailman. I didn’t even know his name a few months ago. Not until I reali
