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11: Saturday
I sat there, perched on the unstable wooden chair of the table piece that belongs to my great-grandmother. My legs, swinging back and forth, barely long enough for my toenails to graze the cracked, light blue tiles.
My head, wondering how I would spend my numerous amount of hours I had, as my thoughts would get jumbled from the sound of Led Zeppelin's voice that traversed from my dad's office and into my ears.
My mother, underneath the flickering light, cooking me breakfast to my request, underneath the white, rusting stove, as the overwhelming smell of pancakes, filled my nose and satisfied my stomach. I watched her move back and forth, opening the white fridge with chewed-up alphabet magnets and the rustic cabinets suspended over her head. I lean my head back, against the ripped light green wallpaper, covered in tiny, speckled dots.
The thundering sound erupts upstairs, my brother and sister, competing in the midst of a race, trying to see who would reach the table first.
And with my eyes, I try to memorize the fine rest of the fine details, the foam spongebob pasted on the black stove, or faint sound of water dripping from the sink, or metal dog bowls that is accidentally tipped over, or dusty and stacked cookbooks that my mom hasn't used in years, or the collection of maple syrup bottles my mom puts up for display, but what I couldn't memorize, was the most important thing. A sense of safety, security, comfort.
To this day, the broken-down kitchen, is still placed underneath my bedroom. But the sense of before has been replaced with unfamiliarity. Before anyone is awake on the weekend, I eat breakfast by myself upstairs, and study.
