I scribble a note for my parents, draw a heart on it, and pin it to the bulletin board. Dad in his rented tux, Mom in her glittery gown and poofy veil. And then there’s my parents on their wedding day. Next to it, a collage of my brother and me from kindergarten to junior year, baby-toothed smiles to awkward braces, a blank space reserved for my senior picture.
There’s a formal portrait of my grandma and mom, both of them in powder blue dresses, standing side by side. The family pictures on the dining room wall across from me have hung there my whole life. It’s strange the things you notice when you’re really paying attention. The refrigerator hums, the hall clock ticks, the AC makes that weird noise that no electrician can figure out. In the kitchen, I get a glass of water and gulp it down. I make sure to avoid the squeaky step Dad always promises to fix but never will.
I shut my door and head down the stairs, sliding my hand along the banister worn smooth from seventeen years’ worth of touching. I pick up my backpack and purse and take a last look around my room to make sure I have everything. I straighten the quilt my grandma gave me for what seems like the hundredth time. I lay in bed all night, watching the glowing red numbers on my alarm clock blink down the hours. I’ve been ready to leave for the past hour, but that doesn’t mean I want to.
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