Her life was a quilt. Small pieces from everywhere and nowhere all sewn together making an object that wasn’t quite broken, but not quite whole either. If every day were another square, she would have over 6,387 so far. Although each day she gains one, every time she’s picked up and thrown somewhere else, she leaves behind a few squares, hoping that someone, anyone will remember her. The quilt is dirty and faded in some places, bright and vivid in others. The quilt as well as the girl has seen many things, people, and places, more than most. Unlike most, it was practically involuntary. Her life was constantly in the air. Nothing was certain. Every time she thought it would be okay to grow roots, she would be dragged away, off to a new place with new people and a new place to live. Even when she was given the chance to plant roots, she couldn’t because there was always the possibility that she would soon be gone and she didn’t wasn’t to constantly wonder if they would remember her face, her name; let alone who she was a as a person. Then one day, she decided she didn’t care anymore. Why the hell shouldn’t she grow roots? What was stopping her? Oh, yes, her previous actions have made the task more difficult. But she still tried, she peeled back a few layers for a select few who she needed a shoulder to cry on, someone to talk to. She thought that she had found a few people to try this with, to trust them with not only her secrets, but her families’ as well. She was getting better, getting closer. That’s when everything unraveled. Suddenly her life was in the air again, and she was struggling to keep track of it considering how high it was going. Her efforts began to seem pointless, what was the point again? She had forgotten. It felt like a cruel joke. The world was waiting for her to break down her walls so it could flood her with another disaster. It would soon be back to square one, time to start from scratch again.
Its edges were soft and worn, the photo yellowed with age. It reminded her of lost times, back when things were simple, there was nothing to worry about. Her biggest worries were childish in comparison to the current struggles of her everyday life. The bedraggled woman in the mirror hardly resembled the young girl in the photograph. That girl was young and beautiful, wild and free. Her long blonde hair was blowing in the wind; a smile was sparkling on her face, her cobalt blue eyes shinning in the sunlight. The girl was just 16, a bud, not yet exposed to the harsh weathers of the world. There were strong hands holding hers, warm arms embracing her from behind. She was laughing in delight. She was happy. She thought that her troubles were heavy then. How the old woman wished she could tell the beautiful girl that she should cherish those days, that things would change forever too quickly to keep track. Those arms holding her would vanish without so much as a good-bye; and so would many other arms, even the ones that stayed the longest. Age would take them away forever. The woman sighed; there as little to come of dwelling on the past, she was strong now; stronger than she could’ve imagined. She smiled, finally satisfied with what became of the young beauty in the picture. The woman held the photo album close to her chest as she exhaled for the last time, on her way to those strong arms that held her so tightly.
My Only Home
It was quiet as always, but never silent. There were low murmurs coming from the librarians speaking to one another, they all smiled and waved at you, their most frequent visitor. You slipped a book into the drop-off for returns, feeling a bit of separation anxiety from the world that lies in the pages of that book. Its cover page vanishes form your sight. Time to search for a new adventure. You take a deep breath as you prepare to sort through the hundreds of possibilities. Your footsteps are soft and almost inaudible on the carpet covering the floor. Starting at the top of a bookcase, at the front of the library, you begin the journey. Shelf by shelf, book by book, you read every summary, look at every cover in search of the perfect diamond in the rough. You make note of a few to read later, but for now you’re looking for a specific kind of novel. Almost through the entire genre section, you lose hope. A weight drops on your shoulders as you consider settling for less, just for today. But you give it one last shot, you pick an obviously worn, and beloved book from the middle shelf. Its pages are soft from the countless groping fingers that have traverse over it from cover to cover. The binding is lose and delicate, fragile. You handle it with care as you flip to the back, getting a teasing sneak peek of a story so unique; it leaves you itching to read it right then and there. Not even concerning yourself to see if it’s a well-known author or not, you flip open the cover; not giving it a second glance. As your eyes travel across the page, your eyes widen. It has instantly captivated you. You stop for a moment, take a deep breath and look for your usual spot. Beyond all prying, curious eyes, you’re able to relax and “pop-a-squat” in the most comfortable chair ever made. Without hesitation you delve into a new world, far away from the one called reality.