Memory Lane

Chapter Two

"In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on." -Robert Frost

Memory Lane: Chapter Two

After unpacking all of my clothes and applying my medical lotion to my legs, I sit down on the window seat that Uncle Tim made for me. The cushion is stiff: clearly unused and ready to morph into my shape. My mom's worn leather journal rests open in my lap as I read through more pages of her random thoughts mixed in with other poet's words of wisdom. She has a variety of poets in her journal, but it's clear to me that her favorite was Robert Frost. Along with his poems frequenting nearly every page, she quoted him most often in real life, too. She had a quote prepared for everything.

"What would you say right now, mom?" I mumble as I gently close her journal, looking out the window at the world below.

Though it isn't cold outside, the cool autumn breeze blows against the window and carries a few passing leaves with it. I pull my dad's college crewneck tighter around my body and tuck my legs up onto the bench when a knock at my door pulls me away from watching the world outside.

"Laura?" Allen asks, only pushing the door open after I call back out to him. "Mom- er, Aunt June wanted me to come let you know that dinner is ready. Do you still like meatloaf?"

He stands awkwardly in my doorway, so tall and posture so straight that his head is only inches away from the top of the frame. There's that same look in his eye from before; guilty panic at his needless change of wording. It's as if he thinks that even saying the word "mom" will set me into a depressive episode.

From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of myself in the mirror and see my lack of a smile. I'm reminded that people will only look at me that way if I give them reason to. So, I quickly plaster one on in the most convincing way possible even if I haven't liked meatloaf since I was a little kid.

"Thank you, that sounds great!"

I internally groan at the obviously fake excitement to my voice. No one gets this cheerful over meatloaf even if it is their favorite meal.

Allen eyes me from behind his glasses. You hate meatloaf, don't you?"

I wince slightly at being caught and my smile turns sheepish.

"I tried to tell her. I remember when you got sick from it when we were kids, but she brushed that off and said it was always your favorite," he says, rolling his light blue eyes.

I hear Aunt June shuffling around in the kitchen downstairs and a sting of guilt hits me. "Please don't tell her, I'll still come down and eat."

"Don't worry about it. If you want, I'll just tell her you're still busy unpacking."

Gratitude washes over my expression as I nod and things fall silent. Allen continues to stand by the door, his eyes darting around the room and feet shifting every few seconds as if he can't find a comfortable position to stand in.

"So..." he says, clearing his throat, "how are you settling in? Did she overdo it with the pink?"

This isn't home. For the past eight months, nothing has come remotely close to feeling that way. Still, I look around the walls and items covered in different shades of pink and a warmth crawls through my body instead of any pain or sorrow. Aunt June did all she could to make me feel at home; she's even going so far as to make me meatloaf that at one point really was my favorite food. This may not be home, but it has the potential to begin to feel that way if I let it.

I look back at Allen who seems as though guilty for asking after it takes me so long to answer. Quickly, I respond with more cheer than probably necessary to sell my story.