Photo: Annabella Chad - Katie Garfield
(Feel free to ignore this and imagine her how you want)
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There is an incredible difference between a house and a home.
One is simply the building in which you live, the latter was the feeling of comfort and love. The latter was the loving parents, the loving siblings and quite possibly a pet.
My 'home' was ruined a long time ago. But slowly I had recreated a resemblance to one, not the typical one with parents, siblings and the nice house with the white-picket fence. Nope. None of that.
The only home I knew in the past couple of years was the track.
Yes, the track. The place you go to run, and that's what I love to do. It is my safe haven, my happy place. And no one and nothing could ever ruin that. Not the doubters, or criticizers, or the people who flat out laughed at me. Honey, they'd say with a cruel laugh, you definitely cannot do this.
You're not good enough.
People like you don't achieve things like this.
You may as well give up now.
I could do this. I wasn't sure if I knew this from self-confidence or maybe from the million times my dad had told me. He had always been my biggest supporter and role model. He had also been a track runner. In his day, he was a national record holder, almost an Olympic competitor.
Like any parent, my dad has his faults. Many more than I can count. One of which is his incapability to hold down a job. This, and many other reasons, is the answer to why I move around so much. Ever since I was twelve my dad and I had moved more times than I could count on both hands, and most likely feet.
Nonetheless I love him, faults and all. With all the moving we did, I had a hard time making and keeping friends but my dad has become my best friend. He is always there to pick me up off the ground, and with a smile.
We have just moved, once again. This has been the second time this year, and it's only August. But settling into this town seems easier than any other. A small part of me would like to believe it was because maybe this time we would be staying longer, but the logical part of me knew it was probably because we are exceptionally skilled at packing up our lives and moving. A girl could always hope for the former.
The first thing I do in this new town is go for a run. It is the easiest way to scout out the town; the schools, grocery stores, entertainment centers, etc.
Coming back from my run, I call out to my father as I step into the unfamiliar rental house. Though, I already know that he wouldn't answer - his car wasn't in the drive - most likely he'll be out doing his own type of scouting. The town's local bar, that is.
I go to work robotically unpacking boxes and organizing everything, per usual. Even at night the harsh summer heat kills me as I unpack box after, endless, box. After I had cleared all the boxes from the kitchen I take a much deserved break, resting on the swing bench on the front porch.
We had resided in a fairly busy neighborhood this time; it is shaped like one very large cul-de-sac, with an unnaturally large park/pond/forest area in the middle. There seems to be lots of people, old and young, milling around, even at this time of night. It surely isn't quiet but I don't mind, I like to people watch. A group of boys around my age pass by heading to the park, once at the park they start to throw around a football, laughing and shouting. The rental house is only separated from the park by a small road, giving me a good vantage point of, well, pretty much the whole neighborhood, from the comfort of the porch.
YOU ARE READING
Finding Home
Teen Fiction"You're wrong, I never broke your heart. Because it always belonged to someone else."
