Imitation Paragraph #1
Hemley “Reading History to my Mother”
I see the birdhouse, hanging lopsided on the weather-worn pole. I don’t have any shoes on. I took them off so that I wouldn’t track dirt into the house. The path is only slightly worn, but still the risk of stickers in the grass causes me pause. I look at the birdhouse, then at the grass. My eyes finally settle on my lily-white feet, spoiled by the comforts of socks and expensive tennis shoes. My father ambles up next to me.
“Anything in the birdhouse?”
“Nope,” I reply. “Hollow.”