What is Home?
What is Home?
By: Anjalea Ciccio
Home is five in the morning, and your curled and tangled up in a turquoise and lime green comforter trying to sleep.
It’s groaning and reaching to grab a pillow to put over your face because your five year-old brother is practicing karate in his room and his wall is congruent with your queen- sized bed.
Why is he even awake?
At Home, you’re angry because it’s Monday morning, and you have to get up early for school, but you can’t shower because in the bathroom there’s a shower list, and your younger sister has to get in before you.
Eventually, your mother wakes up and she begins to scream and yell at the top of her lungs—which you hate—to wake up the entire house (she regrets this almost immediately).
Home is loud knocks on your locked bedroom door by not just one child, but seven annoying, hyperactive children who just woke up and are wondering if you’re doing the same thing.
You can’t say anything, so you groan once more and your heavy eyelids slide open. You can’t yell at the children, they’re your brothers and sisters, but there is no rule saying that you couldn’t, possibly, maybe, tape their hands together and mouths shut.
Eventually 6 a.m. comes around, and you jump out of your bed, at Home, to act like you’re productive and awake because your mother is coming upstairs and she unlocks your door to see if you’re even attempting to get ready. But when she leaves, you lie back down and fall asleep only to wake up late for the bus that leaves at the top of your street at seven.
By: Anjalea Ciccio
Home is five in the morning, and your curled and tangled up in a turquoise and lime green comforter trying to sleep.
It’s groaning and reaching to grab a pillow to put over your face because your five year-old brother is practicing karate in his room and his wall is congruent with your queen- sized bed.
Why is he even awake?
At Home, you’re angry because it’s Monday morning, and you have to get up early for school, but you can’t shower because in the bathroom there’s a shower list, and your younger sister has to get in before you.
Eventually, your mother wakes up and she begins to scream and yell at the top of her lungs—which you hate—to wake up the entire house (she regrets this almost immediately).
Home is loud knocks on your locked bedroom door by not just one child, but seven annoying, hyperactive children who just woke up and are wondering if you’re doing the same thing.
You can’t say anything, so you groan once more and your heavy eyelids slide open. You can’t yell at the children, they’re your brothers and sisters, but there is no rule saying that you couldn’t, possibly, maybe, tape their hands together and mouths shut.
Eventually 6 a.m. comes around, and you jump out of your bed, at Home, to act like you’re productive and awake because your mother is coming upstairs and she unlocks your door to see if you’re even attempting to get ready. But when she leaves, you lie back down and fall asleep only to wake up late for the bus that leaves at the top of your street at seven.