Observation Essay

College Composition

Observation Essay

Danielle Vine

The fire is dying.  The old cast-iron woodstove always creaks and makes an odd ticking noise when it’s cooling off.  I ought to go outside and get more wood to feed it (fires are hungry friends) but I have an essay to write instead.  I’m not all that sad to postpone fetching more wood though, it’s cold outside and I’d rather be here in front of my laptop.

I’m not alone in this dimly lit living room.  My sister is sitting on the other couch, surrounded by open books and writing on a notepad.  It looks like school, but our silence has not been interrupted by either of our voices for almost an hour, so I will not ask her to confirm.  Her hair is pretty, tumbling down in curly locks around her face, and she has that look on her face that says that she is concentrating.

The dishwasher is loud in the kitchen.  So loud that if we end up watching any television, we will have to add to the volume just to hear over the din.  Perhaps it is time for an updated dishwasher – but that would be out of the budget now.  After all, the washing machine only just died, and you can only replace so many things in one year.

My left index finger hurts.  I have been fiddling with my hangnails, which is a sure sign that I’m unhappy with my writing, and the skin around the nail is infected.  It makes typing rather uncomfortable, only adding to my sense of dread towards going back to that novel.

A bulb just went out over the kitchen table.  From where I’m sitting, I have been watching it flicker all night.  I’m glad it’s finally out, now I can focus on what I’m doing instead of the dying light.

They just arrived home.  Normally this would only mean an unfortunate interruption to a night of writing, but I was promised something, so I don’t mind the intrusion.  Of course, the first thing that is asked about is the dying fire, and when I fed it last, and whether or not I went out to fetch more wood.  Oh well, Dad doesn’t mind restocking the woodpile – he gets much more out of his trips anyways.

My sister walks through with her violin in arm, and tells us all how her lesson went, though no one bothered to ask.  She pauses to lean over my computer, and reads my first line. After a few quips about how “The fire is slowly dying,” is originally from a Christmas song, and it's totally cliché, she kisses our father and heads to bed.  But only after patting my head and telling me that I’m a good writer.  Sarcasm and giggles.

The room is filled with smoke.  Dad likes to rearrange the fire whenever he opens the wood stove, but I’m used to that by now.  It used to give me nightmares, as I laid in my bed above the vent and smelled the house fill with smoke.  But now I am not lying awake in bed, but here, seeing the safety of the fire.

Well, the promised it coming, and my essay is finished.