My mom tells me, the apartment you and your friend are renting next year has the same square footing as the house you grew up in, which kept a roof over 4-6 people’s heads.
I will remember its white linoleum floors because it was my canvas for spilled juice and splattered paint and dripped nail polish.
The queen bed my sister and I shared, where we’d laugh hysterically in the dark for hours at absolutely nothing until my mom came in to shush us, and the way she’d come in a few hours later at the crack of dawn to stick our arms through the sleeves of our shirts and our legs through our pants because we couldn’t do it ourselves.
The way my sister and I divided up the Rice Krispies treats and the way I screamed red-faced at my mom because she got upset that I wouldn’t share my Easter candy with my sister.
My mom made me steamed pears every time I got a sore throat. I tired of their sickly sweetness but that remedy worked better than any medicine we could get over the counter.
Not trying to break the nostalgic tone but…