Personal Narrative: Moving To Idaho

When I was seven years old and almost a half my parents told me that my family was going to pack up everything, leave our home, our livelihood, and move to Idaho. I was young but I knew I was going to miss Albuquerque. I was going to miss the plump quails who walked quickly with their babies toddling behind in a straight line and the skinny, all leg, roadrunners who would sprint across the roads. I was going to miss my little Crocodile Smile green room. I had chosen the paint color, I had watched my room be painted, and I had to leave it. Abandoning my home was hard too. The front of my seashell white house had two, big, high, arched windows. They had rusty yellow stains running down beneath them that made the house look like it was crying golden tears. Near the grand maroon oak front door were some slightly overgrown, prickly rose bushes. Everyday the roses blushed and smiled at me, turning their pink and yellow faces up. I was mortified to leave my crying house with the smiling roses. The day we left, I found out we were leaving. I had convinced myself that we weren’t going to leave, but then we did. I left my home, my friends, but mostly my memories. My memories included early morning balloon fiestas, during
We drove in a bright emerald minivan who was older than America. The seats were a gray-blue color, the color of a stormy sea. The cup holders were half broken and the windows were covered in tiny sticky fingerprints. The sun beat down in hot and stifling waves. All the liquid in the car was near boiling and crayons were melting into the seats. The air conditioning was a blessing on my skin. When we first arrived, we stayed in a Best Western hotel by the river that made really good cheesy omelets. After two weeks, we rented a dull, brown house in a neighborhood near where I live now. It had thick fluffy jade colored carpet in the basement, petite bedrooms, an overrun backyard, and a painfully small