I want to share and produce more creative writing, so here goes something. This is an excerpt from an extended creative nonfiction piece. Creative nonfiction is true (truth loyal to the subjectivity of memory) portrayed in a more fun, yet inventive form. I wrote about my coming of age in the midst of my parent's divorce.

Look through the trees. See the splotches of white fading behind the twirling leaves. Be careful. Traffic on that road glides like an expressway. Commuters crossing the Delaware and Pennsylvania border cruise carelessly – barely even turning their heads to stop, and see beyond the glass – past our history, my history. Look through the passenger side seat and you’ll see what I see every time I drive up that road: the farmhouse. A private property, enclosed within a line of arboreal towers. I drive by. It’s been at least twelve years since I’ve stepped onto that property. Take a quick look. Hurry. The sight may fade; but the memories still linger.

The barn catches your eye first. A behemoth of a wooden gate, bordered with brown and gray stone slabs, gives way to the tallest building on the property. It’s massive, filled with objects that are formless in my mind’s eye. All I see is sepia, – dirt and dust – cobwebs, junk, and more dust. No hints of any machinery’s clack, clang, or conk; no fur, no feces, no animal fumes; the overpowering sensation is only that of Kennett County Mushroom fertilizer. The scent infiltrates the property, most notably during those hot, hazy days of summer. The odor was thick and sickening. This was the smell of my dad’s first new home.

We were stowaways there, at the farmhouse, every other weekend. We came with our bags, our video games, and our school supplies. Dad didn’t explain it to us. Mom did. But she didn’t need to explain. Everything moved so quickly. For a child like me, it felt like the start of another adventure.

Full speed ahead! Full speed ahead! Land ho, mates! There she lies! Make haste, make haste, we can’t miss another second before the storm sets in.

The captain rollicked his vessel in the white, fluffed sea foam. He wore a red jacket, an eye patch, and his white face was animated with black dots and a toothless, open-mouthed smile. Smooth lines trailed the ship, a grand Playmobil pirate ship, marking the progress of the captain’s homeward haste, guided by the five fingers of my six-year old self. The yellow light of the kitchen was the lighthouse. Distant, but just close enough to see, to hear; it colored the background.

Mom leaned on the counter near the sink, legs moving anxiously, eyes ahead – immovable from the doorway. I don’t know where my brothers were. I imagine Nick was upstairs, listening to music, mingling with his first love: heavy metal. I imagine Anthony sleeping upstairs. He was the only one of us who sufficiently mastered the catnap. I was the youngest, the least aware of any family drama, and the one brother left alone to see things as they were. My dad came in; the cranking of the garage door overpowered his soft step and washed out “hello.”

Silence. I see two bodies staring into each other, as I peer from my vantage point in the television room, over the wall-like couch, under the protection of the television’s background noise. I don’t remember anyone yelling. Their interaction was brief. The dim, yellow light stayed on for the rest of the night, a house in vigil, waiting for a verdict.

“I have some things I have to take care of. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The words he said to me as I sat on the carpeted sea, ship anchored beside me.

Silence.

My mom went upstairs. My dad left the same way he entered.

I trailed my mother upstairs, “Mom, where did he go? Will he be back tonight?”

Mom responded, her eyes somewhere else, “He’ll be back tomorrow. He’s got things he needs to take care of tonight.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine.”

They divorced.