Home. The images that word invoked swirled through my mind, making me to stop and steady myself before continuing on. (grammar) It was just a glimpse of the house through the neighboring trees, standing as it had stood through the past forty years–withstanding (standing/withstanding–change one) snow and rain, heat and discord. (new paragraph) It had gone through a number of face lifts, the latest being a mixture of brick and stucco. I’m not sure I even care about the outward appearance, it had always just been a house to me. It was what happened inside that mattered—that always haunted me. Its siren voice called to me every Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter. It called to me during summer reunions and family get togethers, which were getting fewer and fewer with the years. It called to me even stronger now that I had purposefully avoided all of those activities for the past eight years. (delete these) (new paragraph) Eight long years that I had sought purpose and meaning to the life I had chosen. Only to find that it had been here all along. Here with my family and their unconditional love and open arms. At least, I hoped there were open arms. I wasn’t sure how they were going to feel about my showing up for Thanksgiving so unexpectedly. This unannounced visit–after ignoring all invitations for so long that they had become almost non-existent. But I hadn’t been able to pick up the phone. Every time I tried, my hand would freeze, hovering over it and I would end up pulling it back to gaze with fascinated dread at the machine.
Critique: This has some problems. Mostly structural. You meander too much. The idea of coming home again, dealing with the past, is universal–so that’s a good idea to write about. Need to tighten it up a lot. Get us out of her head and build up a little more sensory experiences.
Would I ask for more? Not at this point.