Note: I found this short piece in my diary from a few months ago, thought its sounded good and would please my mother who is my most loyal and probably only reader. This ones for you mom, you make "Home" what it is.
It was a cold winter morning, I walked in to the house shivering at 10 am.
I had been out all night.
Awake, through the night.
I dragged my exhausted frame up the stairs and crawled into bed.
I curled up under the covers inhaling the sweet smell of the detergent my mother used to wash the comforter with. It smelt like home.
I closed my eyes.
Two rooms away my father was singing "Rasputin" as he pottered about, tinkering with his model railroads or fixing his helicopters.
I heard my dog Buzz run from one room to the other as my mother sneezed as loudly as was humanely possible.
Upstairs my brother was strumming his guitar.
I sighed. content.
I smile.
I'm Home.
It was a cold winter morning, I walked in to the house shivering at 10 am.
I had been out all night.
Awake, through the night.
I dragged my exhausted frame up the stairs and crawled into bed.
I curled up under the covers inhaling the sweet smell of the detergent my mother used to wash the comforter with. It smelt like home.
I closed my eyes.
Two rooms away my father was singing "Rasputin" as he pottered about, tinkering with his model railroads or fixing his helicopters.
I heard my dog Buzz run from one room to the other as my mother sneezed as loudly as was humanely possible.
Upstairs my brother was strumming his guitar.
I sighed. content.
I smile.
I'm Home.
