Somer+Desciptive+Essay

. Every day at four o’clock my seasoned neighbor wrenches open his weathered wooden front door followed by the sound of a very squeaky screened second one, only opening them far enough to squeeze his frail body through. Hobbling, he crosses the splintered porch in his open toed sandals and sits on a wicker rocking bench in the soft shade of a looming willow tree. A book is usually strewn lazily across his creased khakis and he gently leaves through it till sunlight gives way moonlight. The days he doesn’t bring a book would be wasted tugging at his wiry white beard and staring into the blue and yellows of the falling sun. Sometimes when the weather is right he watches children scamper in the streets attempting to fly colorful kites. I observe him though my little square window in my room and I often think about how sad he looks. He is far past his prime and is now speedily souring. I think of all the time consumed just sitting about while life and youth frolic in his face. Overwhelming sadness swallows me whole and, tears trickle down my violently red cheeks wetting the pillows. Hair begins to stick to my face. Every day at four o’clock I lie unable to move and watch my seasoned neighbor.