My Old House

Macy Lange

Curling up on a beige couch textured to purposely upset me, peering at a box TV that is displaying monster high for the third time that day with adoration in my eyes. I don’t know the time, or the day, all I know is that my mom is sleeping and my sister is gone. Sunlight streamed through the windows and landed on the floor in a way that brightened up the room. Pieces of dust particles float through the beams of light only to pass through and disappear again. My mom arose after a while and makes grilled cheese for what feels like the thousandth time this week. The smell of cheddar cheese and butter fills my senses and my stomach tightens and turns. I walk to the kitchen and flop down at our round, flat glass table in front of the large window gazing at my mom dancing around the kitchen on our water stained floors making food, but not for long. Her hands now over mine, I’m dragged onto the cold hard floor. Sunlight shines through the window on my back, it’s warm.