American suburbs tend to have the exact same feelings associated with them regardless of where you go. Languid cars drive either ten miles below what is recommended— usually they are the owners of the infamous “Drive Like Your Kid Lives Here!” signs— or you are the children that live here, and so you drive as if it’s your personal freeway all the way down to the tail end of your mom’s white, slightly dented minivan. Either way, people make it home before midnight in the suburbs, they lounge in the budding green of their yards, hand pick their father’s half purposeful, half unkempt yellow and white wildflowers. They litter them over the smoothed out, always slightly damp gravel and reminisce about the last time they stood outside at night, barefoot and submerged in the orangish light from the street lamps. They think the gravel feels cool, almost stabbing and bathed in a certain kind of welcomed filth. It smells too, of warming hot chocolate and deeper, possibly meaningful thoughts.

Prompt:

From Poets and Writers:

In “How to See the Wor