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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2164178
Rated: E · Other · Family · #2164178
Feeling the weight in my heart - but the nice one...
I wish to stare in to a point a long distance ahead of me.

I wish I would be burried in a pile of crisp white sheets, washed with the same fabric softener my mother uses. Or my father would use if he did the washing. It would smell fresh and at first I wouldn't recognize the light scent, because I never really took the time to feel it against my skin - the soft fabric which smelled like flowers I want to some day water in my garden.

Damn was I foolish when I stood in the shop next to my mom, looking at the teen magazines who never gave me anything except self doubt and the wrong picture about what matters in life. Looking at nail polishes and just disregarding her saying I don't care how it smells. I wish I would see what she bought. What she spent her hard worked money on, so I could smell it again - not just in my mind. It should remind me of her every morning when I wake up and see drops of dew on the window. Then knowing it's cold outside I would tip toe on hard wooden floors screeching beneath me to get to the closet. When open it would let out the scent I long to smell again. After putting the apple pie in the oven I would take a blanket and sit, just a little bit to the left, making space for one more person to sit beside me, watching the pie becoming golden. And at the end of the day warm towel would be hugging me, my curly hair twisted up. Little drops running down my neck. And every day would be like this.

Today it's Friday. It is not winter outside. But there are rain drops on my window because of a summer storm. The air is hot and stuffy and I feel just like I'm sitting in front of an oven. And tomorrow I will bake an apple pie for real, not just in my mind.
Even though it's a hot July evening and I can barely breathe I climb on to the bed next to her. Half asleep, exhausted from working she accepts me moving a bit to her left, not asking questions. I smell the pillow and it doesn't smell of flowers, but of her shampoo. She turns to me and I pull my knees up to my chest holding her rough yet soft hands. I suddenly feel like I am an infant lying next to mom for the first time home, feeling save and cherished. And the thing is that my throat has this lump in it and my eyes are burning wanting to burst in to tears. But my heart is heavy and I know it's because there is a whole lot of love in it.

And suddenly I don't wish to stare so far ahead of me. Now, I just want to look gratefully in to eyes, as gold as a cinnamon apple pie.



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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2164178