The sun settled softly across the bare skin of my arm. It was almost as if the blazing ball of fire felt sympathy towards me and was attempting to comfort me with a light touch. It was like I remembered much about the previous day. Crying while in the comforting arms of my currant love, Derrick, and washing the dark scratchy polo he wore with my tears. Then there was a car ride, much like the one I was in now, but longer and a heavy atmosphere anchoring our spirits to the ground. The most perplexing of my memories was thing morning when I woke; the fog still in a thick settlement around my mind. There were cream walls replacing my canary yellow. A bed twice the size of the one I was use to cradled me in the thick warmth of quilted comforters. It was nothing at all like waking up to Ariel and Flounder hugging me, but just as cozy. There was an elderly push armchair sitting lazily in the upper right hand corner of the room beside the cherry wood chest that held my childhood and some of my hormonal teenage years. The most curious thing of all was finding Pete sitting on the edge of my bed; greeting me silently with a tilt of his head.

Pete had never been one of many words, but his eye said everything. Yes, he has one eye, stone cold black but so filled with emotions like the blank pages of a journal. The match to his eye was replaced by a Scooby Do bandage; having been lost in the Great Tantrum of ‘77. Poor Pete, abused for years and still able to remain strong for me. Chunks of his dingy and stained light brown fur were missing, most likely having been taken to the vacuum. He smelled of sunflowers and lilies; of course anyone that spends enough time in my granny’s house gets that smell imprinted on their skin for weeks. My bedfellow from the time I was waddling stared up at me, with a tinge of depression in his gaze. We stared at each other for a moment as I slowly asked myself, why was my uncle’s childhood bear doing in my bed? Where was I?

My mother’s voice broke me out of my haze and questions as we pulled along side the small brick house. Without one word I stepped out into the February chill and swiftly moved into the home. It was warm, but not in any way that could raise the heaviness that held my spirits fast to the ground. Food was plenty; laid out among the kitchen counters and dinning room table like a buffet. There was tangy fruits salads, microwave burritos and pizza bites sprawled on plats in a intricate fashion. The scents of all sorts, both bitter and sweet, filled my nose and tempted me to go and feast. I wasn’t hungry though; how could I be? I roamed into the narrow doorway which lead to the most depressing area of the house; silently absorbing what the room had to offer. My uncles were watching the Super Bowel highlights, commenting now and then on a play or commercial. My grandfather just sat there in his armchair, staring at nothing and seeming as lost as I was without her. Then I saw it; my grandmother chair nestled in the back corner of the room. It was large, darker of shade but just as plushy as it was the match of my grandfathers chair. In the middle was a impression, sinking into the material of the chair from years of constant use. On the back hung a blanket. It looked much like a quilt, with red and white patches and blue sticking, but had the thin warmness of a blanket. A precious picture; a heartbreaking moment. The chair stood empty.