metanoia

Chapter 1

━━━━━━━━━━━

aria

━━━━━━━━━━━

     Like the previous three years, I would retreat home. It's impossible to find anywhere more familiar — At least in my eyes. Familiarity holds a certain comfort, negative or positive. I'd always know it; I'd always understand it. Putting the tedious task of unpacking in the back of mind, I continue to peer through my bedroom window. The golden rays of the sunset and burnt-orange autumnal leaves paint a picturesque scene outside.

I have it cracked only slightly, as far as the lock my parents had installed would allow for. That very lock was installed solely to keep me from climbing through to stargaze. A decision that followed a fierce and ultimately pointless dispute about my habit of drifting off on the roof outside my bedroom. How was I supposed to resist? The view of the night sky was just too pretty to ignore.

The air is crisp, robbing trees of their red, amber, and gold. I scoff as I catch sight of our neighbors' dated Halloween décor on their vast yet severely unkempt lawn — My father calls them the eyesore of our neighborhood.

The familiar creaking of the hardwood flooring brings back memories of a childhood habit — hurrying back to whatever task I thought would earn my parents' approval. I sit before my drawers with practiced speed, ready to take on the regrettable disarray of clothing I had packed for a single week.

One after the next, I grab articles of clothing from my duffel bag to my drawers. This was always such a tedious aspect of my holiday visits. Although it seemed faster and less time-consuming to live out of my duffel bag, as far as my parents were concerned, it was the less aesthetically pleasing option.

"You should be done by now, pumpkin." My mother places herself against my white door frame. Her voice contests the dulling hum of my air conditioning. She strolls into my room. Against the pastel pink walls of my bedroom, her gray t-shirt contrasts sharply with the vibrant neon posters and string lights that adorn the space. That, I suppose, speaks for everything she is to me. In the turbulent ocean of my life, she's my steadfast anchor. My stability and control amid chaos.

Biting back the complaints I grew to learn she hated, I glance between the miscellany and back to her. "I can't do it the way you want me to." I lower my gaze to the heap of clothes before me, my brows furrow.

I'd never say this out loud but she is possibly the most predictable person I know. Just as the sun marked the beginning and the end of the day, she would sigh every time her only child decided to remind her what the chills of disappointment felt like.

Her sighs are always hushed, hardly audible actually, yet they had the ability to daunt the core of my very being. Just before the apologies begin to spill from my lips, she joins me on the floor and pulls the duffel bag towards her. Without haste nor strife, she folds each article of clothing. My eyes follow her hands intently as she finishes off with a pajama bottom and closes the drawer.

"Perfect." She states, her voice has her signature inflection as she shut the drawer. Her gaze leaves the furniture and once again my stomach hollows in on itself. As she turns to face me with a smile, her palms rests gently on my cheeks. My gaze flickers between the stubborn drawer — a task that should've been simple — and the foreign warmth of her grin.

"You have no idea how much I missed my perfect girl." My lips pucker, and my cheeks squish as she applies the tiniest amount of pressure to her hold. Her gaze narrows, and her head tilts to the side as she smooths my brows — carrying a bit of unruliness. I resist the urge to pull away from her as I watch the warm smile spread across her lips magnify her crow's feet.