The road changed from smooth to bumpy as he made his way down the red dirt road trying to keep his truck inside the deep ruts that led to the Glass family farmhouse. A few miles down the road he made a turn to the right spying the white building with large round columns supporting the large porch where two black rocking chairs resided peeking out from behind two large pecan trees. It was a dream his parents had always shared. Live in the country and have a place to sit and grow old together while staring at all the beauty that God brought when he painted the sky each morning and night. A sight that was like Inhaling the smell of freshly mowed grass. One that brought a smile on his face even though things were hectic. A fresh coat of navy-blue paint on the shutters tipped it over the top. He was home. The place he not only belonged but the place he needed to be. There was nothing else like coming home.
Today's Submission for the @hopewriterschallenge using the word "Fresh" This is a small excerpt from my work in progress, working title Thy Neighbor.
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