Home is my mom complaining about my hair and arriving late to pick me up at the train station.
Home is my dog crowding the blanket and couch, his furry legs spread over all three leather cushions.
Home is taking my brother to see Jackass 2 because that, to me, is being a “good” older sister. Paying for it out of my paltry salary and not telling my parents what we saw is being a “great” one.
Home is a too small bed and the cats jumping on my feet as I sleep, and nothing to wake up for, but that never stops everyone from coming in at 8:30 on a Saturday anyway.
Home is the pedicure place with the real massage chairs, not just the ones that vibrate, the ones that knead and roll with their motorized fingers into the stress knots in your back.
Home is the good kitchen lamps and textured paint, and aprons, and jugs of juice and lamb chops with smashed potatoes and sautéed spinach and corn jumbled together.
Home is a real wine collection, ruby-toned bottles corked just for the hell of it, because celebrating the weekend is celebration enough.
It has been a very tough week. And I’ll say it now, just as I did after the seven days I spent at sleep-away camp when I was eight, having bunked directly above the girl who soiled her pants; I want to go home, please.
Home is my dog crowding the blanket and couch, his furry legs spread over all three leather cushions.
Home is taking my brother to see Jackass 2 because that, to me, is being a “good” older sister. Paying for it out of my paltry salary and not telling my parents what we saw is being a “great” one.
Home is a too small bed and the cats jumping on my feet as I sleep, and nothing to wake up for, but that never stops everyone from coming in at 8:30 on a Saturday anyway.
Home is the pedicure place with the real massage chairs, not just the ones that vibrate, the ones that knead and roll with their motorized fingers into the stress knots in your back.
Home is the good kitchen lamps and textured paint, and aprons, and jugs of juice and lamb chops with smashed potatoes and sautéed spinach and corn jumbled together.
Home is a real wine collection, ruby-toned bottles corked just for the hell of it, because celebrating the weekend is celebration enough.
It has been a very tough week. And I’ll say it now, just as I did after the seven days I spent at sleep-away camp when I was eight, having bunked directly above the girl who soiled her pants; I want to go home, please.
2 comments:
its better then being below the girl that soiled her pants, i spose.
there is a relief in having a home fortress in which to retreat to. when the howling barbarians have pushed you from the far expanses you travel, having a a good moat and drawbridge to take refuge behind is about as good as it gets. (considering the rancid smell of the horde outside)
i dont know for a fact but i imagine having a family to return to for comfort and safety is a rare thing. those blessed with that are a lucky few. i know the longer i am in the city the more I wish to return home. (my teenage self would be disgusted)
so the moral to my rambling i guess is; feel glad mom can pick you up by the basketball court, some just get stuck in soiled drawers.
Go home! You deserve so much more than this. You deserve the world.
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