A rich, well built prison resting on an acerage.
The sun is just setting over the trees to the west. I can hear the lake across the worn out road, its waters making the gentle sounds that come with the beginning of winter, the end of a year. Its what they would have called an "Indian Summer" 200 years ago. The first big freeze has come and gone and its still warm enough to go outside without a coat. It means that winter will be particularly harsh this year. On the back porch is stacked some firewood to keep the house comfortable and warm during the colder nights. The four dogs run and bark at the distant sounds the wind carries to them, sounds I can just barely catch if I listen hard enough. Leaves still rest on the trees, various shades of red and orange and yellow. In less then a month this all will be replaced with the quiet of dead winter. What color there is left in the world will be washed over by soft sheets of cold white, like silk or satin. My step-father prepares his expensive grills for probably the last real cook out that can be had this year. Inside, my mother cleans her already pristine house as if we were going to have guests, but we never do. Even my brothers are hesitant to come to this place, this Oklahoman Alcatraz. For all its niceness, for all its glamor and the gold things, for all the relics and antiques, this place is a prison. A prison built on the philosophy that more money, more things, more land brings more happiness. They tell me I will understand when I am older, but I shudder to think of the life I might have lived that would lead me to think of things as my bastion of joy in the world. So much waste has gone into the building of this fortress that it saddens to think what those things might have been good for.
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