As I traveled beyond the living room into the small kitchen, looking at the black and white checkered tile that made up the back splash with the dark wood floors and matching cabinets. I dragged my hand across the counter top, the rough surface from knifes cutting the surface brushing my soft skin. I smiled as I jumped up and caught sight of the radio, my mothers favorite appliance int the tiny kitchen...
She was bent over the counter laughing as I boasted along to one of our favorite songs, No Shoes, No Shirt, No Problem as the deep voice of Kenney Chesney joined along in my higher pitched adolescent voice. "THE SUN AND THE SAND WITH A DRINK IN MY HAND!" I cried out, dancing around the kitchen, reaching out my arms and shaking them to encourage my mother to take my hands, and she does just that. We dance in circles as we start to run out of breathe and other songs came through the small speakers.
Cooking was always like this in the steaming heat of Texas summer, happily goofing off in our kitchen. Most of the time it would take us hours to actually make a meal and we would be starving after and rush along to finish the meal that should take five minuets to prepare.
Our eyes shined as we forgot all the problems that we had faced over the years with me being so young without many friends and my mother raising me on her own without the contact of her own mother.
Those moments were my favorite.
Our hair would fly, not constricted into ponytails when cooking, wanting to feel wild and free in that short moment, one we managed to keep even when everything became complicated. Tours would happen but on breaks or visits from my mom we would make at least one day to cook together. Belting out songs to the old country songs that filled the ipod that I bought her so long ago. The one that currently sat in a box at home...
I returned to the present as a draft spread through the room, a chill that settled in my bones as I could picture me and my mother, aging together in the happiest times of my life, one that would never be forgotten.
I knew one day, I would be able to do the same thing with my own child, o carry on the memory and keep our tradition alive. I would tell my children of these times of when I was happiest in my childhood and hope that they find the same resolution.
Ok, I hate this part but I will put the next one up soon... Thanks for reading!
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The House That Built Me
Ficção AdolescenteAfter losing her mother to cancer, Smantha has change and not fo the better. But going back to her childhood home helps bring out the person she was before. So read the memories that bring Samantha back to herself.
