On Going Home For The Weekend

I love visiting my parents and I go home quite often because I love where I’m from and living alone in the city makes me miss my puppies, my parents, my backyard. I love coming home for a weekend and climbing the stairs to my bedroom with my backpack on one shoulder. I jump onto my bed. It feels like 12th grade.
I always have a hard time falling asleep here. My bed isn’t as comfortable as the one in my apartment. My blankets are almost too soft. Too many smells, memories, thinking about how many people have slept in this bed next to me. By now it’s 1am and I sit up in my dark room but the moon is so bright here, and the stars too. I’m wondering how I ever fell asleep here. I’m not sure if I can see the stars in the city. I realized that I never think about the stars in Richmond.
The boy I’ve been sleeping with texts me saying “Why are you in Williamsburg againnnn?” Because I want to be. He asks me to show him what my bedroom looks like. I take a picture of the view from where I’m laying. My legs on an Indian blanket, a garment rack with dresses that no longer fit, a huge window with a view of the forest, the stars, the moon. I don’t send the picture.
I go downstairs for a glass of chocolate milk. 2% milk, hershey syrup. I don’t usually consume dairy but the clink of the spoon on the glass just sounds right, feels right. I find myself opening the wrong drawer for napkins, and turning the wrong way toward the sink. I keep forgetting I’m not in my kitchen. I stub my toe on the hall table. My mind knows exactly how far away the table is, but my toes don’t. All the floorboards creak. This isn’t high school when I’d come home at 4 in the morning stepping in the all the right spots, taking the long way to my room so I could stay on the carpet. I don’t know the way around my parents house anymore. I’m in my bedroom again and I hate this lamp it’s not bright enough to write by, I hate that my mom took all the pictures off my wall- now there’s just tape and thumbtacks. It’s not my room anymore. It’ll soon be a home gym, office, guest bedroom, closet. I think what a long walk it is down the hallway to my bathroom. Creak. Squeak. Moan. How do my parents sleep like this? I forget how old this house is. I only remember being a kid here, the house seemed so young with plastic on all the furniture. I’m washing my makeup off. My mirror is no longer covered in stickers, just streaks from Windex. Stacks of paper cups, toothbrushes in a glass, Chanel compacts in a bowl. I look at the tattoo on my bicep and I really notice for the first time how big my eyebrows are, how prominent my cheekbones have become, and I pour my chocolate milk down the sink.

On Going Home For The Weekend

Summer Miller

Richmond, United States

  • Artist
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