Life at the Counter

Fuddled

At the ripe age of three years old, I'm frantically looking for my purple minivan. The parking lot in the size of a very large living room. There is not a lot of places this van could be, it's not like it could shirk and hide under a rock.

But I didn't give up. I sat out front for an hour and a half, thinking that she would come back to me. Thinking that my momma had just accidentally left me here. That she had gotten a call that something had happened to dad. Or that Hell, maybe I missed some ambulance crew walk in and take her away. I guess her car would still be here, if that were the case. 

In my mind, I'm my mom's angel, her travel buddy, her partner in crime. She is the only person I have. I don't have friends because I'm not in school and we never go home. I don't remember the last time I laid down in my own bed. If anything, the Motel 8, room 18, was more of my home than my actual house. 

I miss it, I really do. I miss having a yard and not being cooped in the car. I miss coloring on a table, instead of in my lap. No one can successfully color in their lap. No one. 

"Excuse me?" someone tapped on my shoulder. I turned around. 

It was our waitress, her hair still crazy and her makeup still bright.

I just kind of look up at her, seeing that at this point, I'm still sitting on the ground waiting for my momma to come back. 

"Do you know where you mother is? She hasn't paid for your food yet and I figure she is still around here somewhere," She said in this accent, a Southern one, but we definitely could not be that far down because it's way too chilly. 

"No, I don't know where she went. I've been waiting for her," I say, more or so ,warrble because I really do not know where she is. 

I'm scared, and at this point I'm on the verge of tears. I think the waitress notice s this and grabs my hand, then takes me inside.