December 25, 2013

4 walls, a roof, and a door.

Not the definition of a home.

A place to eat, sleep, and leave.

Cold, drafty, empty but crowded.

Boring beige walls and 3 windows.

Two ugly, stained couches filling the living room.

The tiny living room.

Nothing in the kitchen besides what was provided.

A bathroom for a mouse and a bedroom for a dog.

Pathetically wrapped boxes under a makeshift paper tree.

A tree made only that morning with some crayons, paper, and tape.

A tree taped to the wall because it couldn’t support itself.

Three empty people sat in the “dining room” eating cheap steaks,

Laughing about things earlier before this.

Two young girls thinking about their lonely mother that night,

Having only chips and guacamole for her dinner,

Staring at an empty tree in the dark.

A movie plays on the TV screen as the three snuggle on a stained couch

When the movie is over, it is time to leave.

A quiet drive to a broken home,

Pains all.

Hearts silently break but are so loud your ears might burst.

Tears stain cheeks and clothes,

But disappear in the driveway.

Warm arms welcome them

And a goodbye with a fake smile.