I curled my legs up to my chest, tucking my hands underneath my feet and propping my chin against my knees. A warm feeling settled in my stomach, washing over my bones. It was like the peace that stole over you just before you went to sleep, or when you've just eaten you're mother's cookies, curled up next to a fire to sip on hot tea or cocoa, and wrapped yourself in a warm, fuzzy blanket while the steady drum of rain on the tin roof filled your ears. It reminded me of vanilla candles and supper steaming on the stove. Twilight darkening outside my window, the house pet curled over my flannel legs and fuzzy socked feet. That was the feeling of warmth whenever I saw him. I couldn't think of a word for it besides home.
He made me think of cooking meals in our kitchen, spending long afternoons and nights curled up beside him while he got that amused, attentive expression on his face when he stared at the little child in between us who was more of a mix of his features than mine.
It wasn't picture perfect; it was perfectly flawed.
I didn't want perfect; I wanted a home with him. And in his arms, he was always home.
YOU ARE READING
Imagine This
Short StoryImagine This is a collection of various rants, or meandering thoughts I have or even some stories that I wish to bring to life instead of just living in my mind. A rather vague and flowery diary of my thoughts that I feel needs to be written or else...
