Looking for HomePosted by Emily Brooks on Thursday, May 21, 2009
I walked behind my father
picking up stones while he picked up golf balls in the back field. I would stretch my strides to fit his footprints in the mud. I watched my mother cooking spaghetti and breaking the noodles in half to fit in my little mouth. Outside I would break twigs to length my mother always did, pretending to be a chef. I walked behind my father that last time he left trying to get one last kiss to last me "til next time". After school I aways waited for his maroon honda to never show up. I watched my mother going through boxes and crying over this. Filling the boxes and filling my mouth and working three jobs. She was packing up what was left of our home. Years later I walked behind my father as he opened his door and lead me to the kitchen where she was cooking noodles for the first Christmas I'd seen him in so many years. I watched my mother upstairs of my grandpa's house flipping through newspapers for a place to rent to get out on our own. And then I noticed myself, no longer following or watching, but outside in bike rides and car rides, I realized I was finally looking for home.
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