Desire to Write

For my first thirteen years I grew up in Covina, California. My family lived in an area known as Covina Hills. It was horse property, with lots of oak trees, and Walnut Creek ran by our home.

Covina Hills Road traversed its winding, snake-like pavement path through the area, while large trees arched and stretched their limbs overhead. Today the area is vastly different, but my memories are of that time, some forty years ago.

I have one particular memory, which has stayed with me these many years. It is perhaps my first recollection of a desire to someday write.

Late one afternoon I was in the car with my mother, as she drove down Covina Hills Road. I remember looking up, out the car window, and noting the trees that lined each side of the street, their limbs bowing over the byway, meeting high overhead, above the center divider.

I watched the leaves above as they, instead of us, seemed to be whirling by. They fluttered and twisted in the afternoon breeze, sunlight giving them erratic golden halos. Silently I imagined how I would describe the scene, what words would I use to depict such a visually appealing route.