Quietly, I came back to the home of my parents and filled my marks there. I pooled myself back into the weighted grooves on the wooden floor, in our living room that led to our kitchen and to the base of the stairs. With my packed bag, I brought back the person I was becoming. Time had ushered me into lands I had not walked with my parents. Their words “we support the path you choose” softly cooed in my ears, but my fear is a noteworthy marksman that hounds our front door.
In the coil of my fingers, I touch the house key as if to remind myself I will one day become a visitor. The many homes we have lived in come to mind; their brick exteriors, their worn down numbers, and their stone and concrete steps. I made arrangments for the past to cradle me into the future.
The dingy colored leaves are scattered across our lawn. Before the season, the weeds had grown rapidly but now shrivel in the biting wind. I came home with my eyes searching for a crevice that love was malleable. Love opened windows in the middle of winter, and gnawed at frost bitten fingers. Tracing the walls, I ascended to my old room with feelings of sadness and comfort. My old room looked the same as I had left it, letters strewn on each surface and some tucked away neatly. The books I had read before the semester judged how much of the world I had fully experienced. A compact tv without a remote was now coated in dust, and next to it there were traces of who I was before I left my home.
“We just want you to be safe,” my father’s voice booms from downstairs as my parents watch the television.
Originally written Nov. 27, 2015