essays

The Eleventh�s Sunrise
Tuesday, September 11, 2001         6:46am

   Being a chilly morning, my father drove my brother and me to the bus stop. I would have just assumed to have walked. I had a jacket. Besides, what is cooler than seeing your breath caught in the crisp morning air? I noticed, while climbing into our Silverado, that the sun was just peeking over the edge of the earth. �Good,� I thought to myself. Another wonderful chance to view the so ever breath taking sunrise.
    I sat in the back seat of the pickup, windows glazed with a soft dew. Down my window was a drip of water that stretched from top to bottom. The sun, golden and magenta, continued to rise. Its rays catching the condensation, creating a stained glass window, except the drip. I valued the stain glass, but I cherished the drip. It was my slightly clear view to the world. And the sun continued to rise.
    I got out of the truck about a minute later, being because of our neighbor arriving at our stop. Unlike usual, I said nothing to her. She faced the highway, anticipating the bus. My brother looked at the ground anticipating the end of the day. I looked to the horizon of trees and marsh and railroad tracks, anticipating the sun rise.
    Ever so slowly it began to creep, painting the sky around it the most beautiful color in the world, sugar maple orange. Thoughts of autumn filled my head as the rays glazed my vision. Just out of curiosity, I turned around. I had done that so many times before, being only today that I realized how I took that view for granted, just as I had taken everything else for granted.
    They stretched their arms, reaching for the sun. Their bundles of wares, penta-groups of needles, shown. They towered the back horizon, and as I scanned their majestic being, down from root and up to point, I watched those bows reach for the sky, getting their first taste of sunlight. The beginning of their day long feeding. They tasted it. Only the tops did. I stood there wondering how it tasted. Was it like warm milk or sweet peppermint, both being of good flavor. If I was a tree, I would hope my first taste was of peppermint and after that, sweet warm buttermilk, but I stray.
    I returned my view towards the sun. It had just started to begin its later hall over the tree tops. For another reason, I�m not exactly sure why, I glanced upward, following the clouds along the sky.
It was a blanket stretching over the land. Patch work. Patches of lavender and blue with a slight touch of magenta. The sky beyond the blanket�s end was light pink. I once again followed the clouds, this time towards the sun. As I progressed, the patches changed from their pastels to white stuffing cover with clear lace, sewn with blue thread.
    I reached the clouds above me, than I turned towards the sun. The white slowly showed that it was dyed. Sugar maple orange. It stopped, the blanket did, just at the edge of the marsh. The sky had grown brighter, with the sun being � above its post. The sky was bright, colored without description.
    Caught up in the moment, I failed to realize the time. It was only until I heard the rumble of the bus, that I realized my view was about to end. It drove up N, headlights on, strobe flashing, both of which were hardly noticeable, due to the golden paint that tinted the earth. For a moment, it camouflaged the bus, except for the windows reflecting the rays. I headed towards the roadway, waiting for my wave.
    As I began the cross, I gave one last glance at the sun. I knew I would catch glimpses of it on my bus ride, but I knew it would not be the same. I was given the wave, along with my two accompaniers, both of them bored, not knowing of my immense, but silent, joy. I smiled. Some people cherish the sunset, bringing closure to the day. Some wish for moonlight, to bring light to the dark night. I long for both of those for similar, but yet extremely different reasons. But most of all, I long for my sunrise. 7:17am.
                                                                                                                                    Crystalmichelle Louise Brown

(NOTE TO READER: This essay is full of fragment sentences. I assure you that I have had countless English classes, where I learned how to write correctly structured sentences. I use the incomplete sentences in my style of writing. Thank you for your understanding. CLB.)