At just 20 years old, Aria Anderson had burst onto the scene, freshly graduated with a degree in choreography that showcased her mastery of ballet, modern, and jazz techniques, along with a keen understanding of body conditioning. It was during this...
My heart goes pit a pat Feels like I'm stuck with you Like back then again My heart goes out to you I feel the same as you Everything comes through Just like that day
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"Mama, what are you doing?" I ask with a giggle as she mumbles and looks through the fridge.
"What should I make for dinner? Steak? Fried pork chops?"
"He doesn't eat red meat." I say shaking my head.
"Oh. How about fried chicken with biscuits and gravy?"
"He might eat that. Relax Mama, you've been running around all day."
"It's not every day the Michael Jackson comes to my house."
"He's a human being. Please treat him normally."
"You're right he's my future son-in-law."
I playfully roll my eyes.
"The house looks good. Relax. He won't be here for a few more hours. I want things to go well."
"I know baby."
"I'm gonna be in my room. If you need me just yell."
"I'm gonna get dinner ready."
"Alright."
With each step I took toward the staircase, the age-old wooden boards groaned softly beneath my weight, their familiar creaks blending into the symphony of my childhood echoes. As I reached the top and gently pushed open the door to my old room, a rush of nostalgia enveloped me like a warm embrace. I paused for a moment, breathing deeply, the musty sweetness of aged books mingling with the whispered remnants of laughter and innocence that once filled this space. My gaze wandered across the room, taking in every cherished detail—the faded posters peeling slightly from the walls, the sun-dappled dust motes dancing in the shafts of light, and the well-worn toys strewn about, each one telling a silent story. I searched for anything amiss, any sign of neglect, but found only the echoes of a time long past, waiting to be revisited.
The sunlight poured through the window, filling the room with a cascade of warm, golden rays that danced across every surface, transforming my makeshift sanctuary into a haven of light. I glanced around and took in the chaotic scene before me: a haphazard pile of clothes lay scattered across the floor, a testament to my frenzied packing just moments before. As I knelt down, I could feel the soft fabric beneath my fingers, each item telling a story of its own. I carefully picked them up, folding each piece with deliberate precision, and enjoying the rhythmic motion. One by one, I draped them over the back of the chair at my desk, each fold bringing a sense of order and tranquility to the whirlwind of chaos. With each tidied garment, I felt a quiet sense of accomplishment wash over me, as if I was reclaiming not just my space, but a piece of my mind, bringing a semblance of harmony to my surroundings.
