andrepeat

"I AM HOME!" she yelled, as she exhaustedly slumped down on that 70's yellow upholstered couch of her grandmothers she always swore she hated, but deep down gave her a comfort she could never replicate. this was the house she grew up in, but it had nothing that she remembered, except the couch of course. she looked around at the pictures on the walls with no recolection of the family that she had left behind. " i do this everytime" she whispered, not really clear on what she was talking about, but it was just coming out like dialouge, a part she had been asked to play.
::sudden urge to go outside and sit on the bench so perfectly positioned in the frame of the bay window overlooking the front yard::

denied.

she got up from the couch and turned away from the window, towards the kitchen. a room she had cooked many a meal in. her and her grandmother would make it a ritual to get together every sunday night and cook and talk, and just reflect. it had been years since they had done that and according to her, it had never happened. she walked down the hall to a room she was drawn to, third door on the right. as she got to the doorway, placed her hand on the knob, she dropped her head and said "this is it".


and that was all she wrote