The dandruff of home
There's frost on the ground; it's a little like somebody left the earth in the freezer a little too long. Saturday morning and I want to be home. I don't want to be where I live, I want to be where I was raised. I want pull on my robe, stand inside the front door and steel myself. I want to fling open the door, quietly, because my family is still sleeping. Glancing out the door and down the drive, I want to eye my target- the morning paper. "Are there any evening papers left?" I'd think as I bound down the porch steps. My bare feet would slap cold, very cold concrete as my robe flew open. Bending at the waist while still moving forward I'd reach down and grab The Star as I skidded to a stop. My feet would be uncomfortably cold as I zipped back up the steps and into the house, pulling the door shut behind me. The sigh of re-acclimation, the promise of hot chocolate, and the minutes of solitude before my parents rise would greet me in the kitchen.

"Morning," I'd say, wrapped in familiarity.