One foot clad in black, Mary-Jane pumps banged against the chair rail with a dull thud. I had switched the lamp on the table to its dimmest setting, ready for our return. They will be down soon, I silently told one slim leg clad in off-white tights. I perused my dark blue, silk velvet dress for any specs of missed lint and, finding none, took in a deep satisfied breath: Finally, I’m where I belong.
“No!” I told myself. “I’m too tall now to swing my feet while sitting on a chair. It won’t be that way.”
The scene in my mind changed. This time I stood looking in the mirror. My short hair had been expertly slicked back, my eyes perfectly made up. This is where I belong, I firmly told myself.
“Something is off,” I told my Friend. Tears filled the corners of my eyes. “I imagine and plan and try to see myself as I will be when I’m finally with my parents and I just can’t get it right. How will I ever be ready to go home if I can’t even see it as possible? How can I plan if I don’t believe it will happen?”
I hid my head in my arms, my heart in the warmth of His embrace. He remained silent.
Every Friday,100s of bloggers set a timer, write for 5 minutes, and then publish the results. We don’t edit or engulf ourselves in concerns about whether our writing is worthy to be seen. We expose our incomplete, unpolished thoughts and words to each other and our readers. Kate Motaung’s, at Heading Home, provides the prompt on Thursday evening. We all link our posts there and tweet them with the hashtag #FMFParty. Join us.