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My First Day In My Life

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I am 5. I am sitting on our loveseat with my mix-matched Chuck Taylor’s propped up on my moms lap as she ties them. My dad comes out of our bedroom (I only say our because I am still too scared to sleep in my own.) He kisses all 6 of us on the head, saving the best for last of course, my mother. She has sleepy eyes and they are the most beautiful shade of brown. The kind where you can hardly see the pupils. It is time to go to school. My first day ever. This is the earliest memory I can recall from our tiny yellow house on the hill. The place I grew up. The first place I called home. I remember sitting in kindergarten crying for the normalcy I once knew. Whining for the chipped paint and the white fence that wrapped around the porch. I was, by definition, homesick. It eventually got so bad that my teacher called my mother to come pick me up, at least I got what I wanted. I thought she was going to be thrilled to see me, I figured that if I missed her this much then surely she had to be missing me too. My teacher walks me to the office where she is waiting and her once sleepy eyes are now frustrated. I wrap my arms around her waist and she softens, but only for a moment. We ride home in silence and when we reach the driveway she makes sure I know this can’t be an everyday thing. I have to go to school, even though it smells that glue and floor wax. I get inside and throw my body on the couch, relieved. I can finally breathe again. The couch had never been this soft before, I
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