For an english class in which I am taking at school, we have written an essay on a photograph. It is an essay with a flow, in a sense it is a mixture of a poem and a personal essay. This is my photograph. This is my essay.

The House on the Corner
There is a sense of mystery with this house, simply because I do not know who lives here, for I have never met anybody from this house, not a man or a woman, a boy or a girl, not even a cat or a dog. I do not know why I have not encountered anyone who resides within these walls, I merely live down the street and up the hill from this home where the sculptor and his wife live. I think it might be better to consider this a home instead of a house, after all people do live in it, I am sure of this. If no one lived here, who would put the two neon tubes of light, one colored red and the other green, out each Christmas, or plant the towering sunflowers on the side of the road, or mow the small patch of grass in the front. It must be the sculptor and his wife.

Why do I assume a sculptor lives here, I often wonder, and the only reason I can recollect is that one of my parents once told me that he was, in fact, a sculptor. There is only one other sign of this, the pieces of metal that have been welded and molded together with other pieces of metal to form the ever changing figures that often sit outside the residence.

I have never seen a vehicle pull out of the garage or parked on the side of the road next to the house, I think perhaps they might walk around or ride a bike around town, and when I see them it is not apparent that they reside within this home.

Perhaps one day I might meet them, learn who they are, find out what they did with their lives, and hear some lengthy stories over a cup of tea in the garden they have atop their home, on the roof of this red brick home, with green plants clinging to its side, a garage door with something behind it, and the metal sculptures standing proudly in front of the house on the corner.