Personal Narrative: Road Trip To The Rocky Mountains

My favorite smell, probably his, hers, and theirs too, is the smell of freshly cut grass. It’s a little bit sad, actually, that I like the smell of dead organisms, murdered by the hired mower or my grandfather or the obnoxious neighbors who play their drums loudly every Friday. The smell of freshly cut grass brings me back to the time before my parents split up, nearly eight years ago. I feel like I’ve time-traveled to the years of 2009 and 2010. Those were good years. My family of five, myself included, would go on road trips reaching as far as the border of Kansas to the coniferous trees of the Rocky Mountains. There’s a particular memory that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget. Imagine being four years old and sitting in a Honda

Ridgeline 2007, currently dormant at a newly built gas station with a full view of a section of the Rocky Mountains. The soil on the ground is red, and the sun is a few minutes away from setting. All four windows of the truck are half-open but it’s still humid and hot, making the the individual hairs atop your head clump together. You’re handed two of those gummy vitamins by your mother, shaped in the forms of Disney princesses and Spongebob and hearts. You say something witty, and everyone in the car laughs. Your father returns to the car, and you and your family start driving towards the silhouette of the mountains. The sun has already set, turning everything different shades of blue and purple. Staring out the window, you can hear the low rumble of the truck and pebbles hitting the underside of the car. Just faintly though, you can smell the grass.