Home Sweet Home

He says he's starving,

which I'm sure is true,

but I think he's also tired of carrying me,

and the kitchen is the first room we reach

when he walks through the front door.

He sets me down

in one of the brown wicker chairs

surrounding a brown, wooden table,

cracked, smudged, and faded from years of use.

It's cold in the house.

Colder than usual.

But that could just be because of the heat wave.

Will never keeps it cold when I'm here

because I can't stand the cold.

He usually changes the temperature

as soon as I walk in.

But he must have forgotten.

And I don't remind him.

It's quiet.

Usually I can hear the pitter patter

of his little brother's footsteps,

and the sound of his parents'

debating about politics and discussing the weather.

And usually he's chattering nonstop

about whatever pops into his head.

But today,

it's just quiet.

The house is empty.

There were no other cars in the driveway,

so I know it's just us here.

It's cold, quiet, and empty

but it's all comfortingly familiar,

like going on a long vacation,

and coming back home,

and knowing that you're where you're supposed to be

but it doesn't quite feel right.

Maybe I just feel that way

because I'm not technically home.

These days,

it's kind of hard to find a place

that really feels like home.

Author's Note

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