Remember Back Home?

The sky was quickly turning into different hues of red, purple, and pink. You lay at peace,

hanging on the precipice of the deck’s brown wooden ledge overlooking several roses and a sea

of green grass your father struggled to maintain. Your right hand tightly held the cool delight of a

lime popsicle while your left traced the comforting grooves of the supporting wooden poles

below. Your mind fixates on Bruno Mars’ “That’s What I Like”, looping lyrics around and

around. Your eyes were transfixed to the wooden gate at the end of our neatly cropped grass. You

wait patiently, too engrossed in the pleasures of your lime popsicle and lyrics to find boredom in

the passing minutes. “Daddy!” The headlights of your father’s sedan shone brightly over the tall

green hedges marking the boundaries of home. You rushed to the wooden gate like a diehard fan

rushing a Super Bowl victory. The long pathway to the parking pad was a brutal distance for

your small legs. You don’t care. “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” You cry in pure excitement. You land

in your fathers arms. Smearing his creaseless work shirt with your popsicle tainted saliva. You

don’t need a clock to know that the time was 6:30pm; your saving grace from a bad day or the

highlight of a good one.

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