Mimicry

It was almost dawn was we reached our new home in Santa Barbra, California. The sky was no longer black liquid with flecks of diamonds, now burned crimson as the sun began to rise in the east. I cannot remember the exact arrival at our new home for the soothing hum of the train’s engine had put me to a well deserved sleep.
“Wake Catalina,” spoke the warm smooth voice of my Mother. As I opened my eyes the rays of the early afternoon sun crept through the window and filled the room with a soft light that swept across my mother’s face. “It is half past noon, you must come meet this new country,” she said as she walked towards the door.
Finally rising, I peered around my new room. It was smaller than the one I had in Mexico. The floor was hard and cracked and looked as though it would be cold to the touch if the sunshine had not already warmed it. The walls were painted a pale gray the color of the thunder clouds that are so common in the summer. After dressing I followed the sounds of my mother to the kitchen where she had started on lunch. Our house was no longer made of slabs of clay the color of sunsets but instead a mixture of dark brick cut into perfect little rectangles and planks of wood. Before our windows and doors had simply been cut out of the clay but now there were actual fixtures with hinges and knobs. The most peculiar yet fascinating thing of our new home was running water. There was now no need to hike along the dusty road to the public wells where I would have before pumped water into buckets and then balanced them back home. Our water was in our house. All I had to do was turn the faucet and after a few moments a steady stream of clear liquid would fall into the basin.
My mother was a tall woman whose brown eyes were as bright like that of the winter water. Her skin was leathered from the sun yet she still radiated a youthful glow. She loved to spend her time in the garden and baking in the kitchen. My father was also similar in appearance, tall and spare, however his eyes were dim yet full of wonder. My father told me of the ocean and that I should go with him after we ate so I could see it and the town.
Soon after lunch I found myself walking down a cracked paved road. All the houses on our street were similar, small and rusty but as we reached the ocean all the streets were lined with house so magnificent in size and manner that they could be seen for miles. As we walked along the boardwalk and distinct yet sweet smell of salt filled my nostrils. The wind pushed my hair back as is wrapped itself around my body and clung to me like small child holds its mother. The sand was tan and when it was wet almost matched the color of my skin. All along the beach jagged rocks dotted the horizon. The waves rolled in and their crashing drowned out all other sound except for the occasional squawk of the seagulls which constantly hovered in the clouds.
On the way home we stumbled upon a family who lived along the beach. Their house probably one of the most glorious I had ever seen. It was painted white which gleamed brilliantly in the afternoon sun. It had huge columns that showed just how great it was in size. The stained glassed windows had brilliant colors of blues, greens, and reds which reflected light like water does on clear summer days. All along the perimeter it was decorated with flower gardens whose blooms were in full effect. In the yard was a boy whom I heard his mother call Noah. His hair was blond like the cornfields of my hometown and his light blue eyes could only be compared to artic ice.