I sit outside the hospice and I can't do this again. I want to go home. It smells oh so familiar and I'm not ready for this to happen again.
Wind blows through my short hair as I sit on the curb in front of the horrid building. Fear strikes through me when the man puts his hand on my shoulder. He asks if I'm here alone. I shake my head, speaking of my father who is inside as a response. I want to go home.
The man smiles and tells me about how much he would have liked me when he was my age. I feel sick. I nod along and tug at my tights with nervousness. I want to go home.
I walk back inside. My father explains how visiting time is over. I always wanted to go home.
The ride back smells sour, like alcohol and upset. I scrunch my nose and roll down my window.
I hope my thoughts get caught in the wind. I don't want them anymore. I want to go home.
