My Place

I have lived in my home for a very long time, 8 years in total from the age of 2 to the present but it felt like 18 years. Time was in between waking up on weekends, watching tv all the way to 8:30 and sleeping comfortably . Life was as easy, tasty and clean as eating my mom’s garden potatoes. 79 felt as forever to me as waiting for an old game to load, that turning circle made of dots, turning slowly then faster, repeating the sequence over and over again. I could count on things. Painfully stubbing my toe on dining room chairs each day, my clumsiness getting me again Chickening out on hard games like Zelda, not following the story, staying in a safe area and collecting things Reading quietly on the couch, not hearing anything else, the story is inside my house. The couch, the book and I are the only things that exist. An empty space, as galactic as the universe, where I can do anything. My place. These were a lot of everyday things. Even today, my address sounds like a book repeating the same word over and over again.