The Feeling of Home

I wrote this for a class I’m taking. Might as well share.

I’m in another new apartment. This one’s not as fresh as the last one. The carpet is dirty and I don’t want my feet touching it without socks. The cupboards haven’t been updated since circa 1975 and I wonder how many people used them, how many people were in and out here, and how I am just a fragment of the DNA to get mixed up within these walls. A speck of time, like a piece of pottery found in the depths and layers of the earth that archaeologists dig up.

Sometimes I lay, vacant in my room, remembering what security felt like. I’ll lay for hours in musty, sleepy sheets. Some would call it a symptom of melancholy, but I call it grounding.

Grounding is the act of remembering why I made it to where I am — why I left home — why I could never go back.

Despite all that, I still long to see my mothers reassuring face and I still crave to hear her warm sing-song voice flutter every Sunday dinner like I used to.

One time mother cooked me and my brother grilled cheese sandwiches, complete with chocolate milk, over our old beige and brown stove. She put the meal on a special serving tray we never used. I used to believe it was for a butler to serve their ostentatious master. I truly believed that at one point, that tray had been mixed up in the magic of a royal duchess’ grand life. Perhaps my own mother had once been served a spread of delicate tapenades or smoky meats.

Mother presented to us what was a grand feast of cheese and chocolate to a seven and five year old. As it rained outside, the dim light in the basement added a layer of contentment as our crocheted blankets hugged our little bodies. My brother and I laid on our stomachs as Batman cartoons played on the tiny silver TV.

Sometimes I want my mother. I want my mother like I am seven and sick with the flu.

I start to feel weak around dinnertime. My knees start to ache from relaxing in the folds of a soft mattress too long. If I wait any longer to eat, I know my sickness will become authentic — rather than brushed with the pangs of restless, yearning for more simple times.

I get out of bed. Salvaging the remaining sunlight that peekaboo’s through my simple rentals blinds, I draw myself to my not-so-darling vintage kitchen. I intend to fix myself a simple sandwich, but alas, I find myself scrubbing out the specks of DNA and the layers of time.

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