Book Report On Trillium

several porches and the history her mother liked to emphasize.  You’ll love the house, they said.  You’ll

'All this stuff and I'm learning,' she said, 'it make me realize that I did have a mother, and all the tragedy she went through. It hurts me but I wanna know more, just like I wanna know about my sister'" (Skloot 288).

Our house on Orangeburg was not what we expected we all figured it would be like the one near Sherwood with a warm cheerful comforting fireplace and open armed trees gathered around in the front.The house on Orangeburg was crumbled like old ugly bread.Time had managed to make this house look irreversible the house was little more than a glorified shed.At least we don’t

Bella Storm walked down the sidewalk, waving to passersby, petting familiar dogs. Bella surveyed her town, she knew it well. Bella had lived in this town since she was born. She was walking down Bluebird Avenue when she came across something strange. An old, worn-down building, with peeling paint and crumbling bricks. Bella was puzzled, she’d never seen anything like this before. She walked up to the building and tentatively knocked on the door.

After two long hours of traveling with nothing to look at but the passing trees, we finally arrived at the farm. As we piled out of the car, I looked at the dirt road we came in on and turned to the house. It was one story and had a red tin roof, surrounded by a large grassy field and then woods beyond that. Twirling around, I walked into the house and plopped onto the closes bed. As everyone else unpacked, I locked myself in the room like a petulant child.

The leather furniture was cracked, and if the chairs were sat upon dust rose about one's thighs. The house seemed to be submerged in shadows as if it also refused to admit the light of the future. It had once been part of the most stylish street in town. Now it was surrounded with the cotton wagons and the gasoline pumps. It had obviously become an eyesore compared to once when it had been so beautiful.

So we get off the airplane, after that we ride a car that going to take us to are new house. It take us 30 minutes to get there. So we get to are new house, it was a beautiful house, it has two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen and a

When my family and I moved from Canada to United States 6 years ago, it was very hard for me and I had to meet and make a new group of friends. I was born in Canada, and I lived in Ottawa all my life until my family and relocated to Atlanta in 2011. At the time of the move, I was eleven years old and I had just finished Grade 5. I remember when my mom told me that we were moving to Atlanta, Georgia I didn’t know where that city was because I only knew the cities in Canada and not in Georgia. I was very sad and excited to move to a new city. I knew I would lose my friends in Canada but I also knew I would get to meet and make some new ones when I get to Atlanta.

I snap out of my reverie and try to remember what was said last, “I’m glad to hear that Dad,” I pause, hesitant to say more. “I sure do miss

I was not surprised when I was told we were moving again. Moving from place to place was something I accepted into my life. My mom always had a good reason to leave and start a new adventure somewhere else.

It wasn’t a far move, only about fifteen minutes away, and I stayed in the school district so it’s not like I’m moving away from my friends. I didn’t really have to go through anything saddening at all during the move. It was just a new experience for me and it was also

The first house we looked at was cabin type of house. It was on a lake, was big, and really nice. My mom liked it a lot, but it was too expensive. So we looked at a few other houses. We really liked this one house we looked at it was big, nice, and it wasn’t too expensive. Also it

“It was a big, squarish frame house that had once been white, decorated with cupolas and spires and scrolled balconies in the heavily lightsome style of

I looked back onto the house as if it were a museum, an artifact- perfectly tact cleaned as I remembered back when I was four years old finding a yellow hot wheel sport car on a window seal remembering the hallways much grander and much larger than they were now. When I rubbed my hand against that seal, I expected dust from years of a messy bedroom lived in by twins with too many stuffed animals. There was none. There was none like that matchbox car lost underneath my bed. My mom wiped it down before the endless showings to people who never cared.

I answered back, “ I just want to know what my mother was like. I was thinking why a person so close to my mother, who she trusted, would end her life just like that. “