Coming Home

I had woken up at 4:30 that morning and jumped in a lake with my friends. Then hiked seven miles to get picked up from camp, and left the summit by nine AM. Needless to say, I was tired. I hadn’t slept on a bed in two weeks, but instead the hard ground and I was very excited to see my bed. I fell asleep in the car, but woke as we drove over my bumpy dirt road. Though I hadn’t been gone long, it seemed as though I was reunited with an old friend as I opened the car door. My tired legs dragged me along my old, paved path to the front porch. The smell of my neighbor’s barbecue traveled into my nose and I could taste his juicy, tender ribs that he so often cooked.

As I walked into my room, the bright turquoise walls greeted me with cheerfulness. My jackets hanging on the coat hanger brushed against me and suddenly I felt grateful for the pieces that made up my room. I touched the wooden desk leaning against my wall, sat in the bright pink chair that rested on my pink furry carpet, and stared at my purple dresser that oozed unfolded clothes. When I fell onto my full-size bed with a white comforter covered in hearts, it was like the bed had swallowed me. I felt cozy like a warm fuzzy blanket and picked up my acoustic guitar that hung against my wall. It sang beautifully as I strummed its nylon strings and looked out my glass door that painted the picture of my deck and trampoline in my backyard. My guitar lay next to me as I stared up at my white ceiling and listened to my brother practice guitar. The sound of his guitar hypnotized me into a deep sleep and I slept better in my own, comfortable bed.