Pumpkin Pie

October 27, 2017
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     I reluctantly turn the doorknob of this new place, the place that I am supposed to call my home. With a single step over the threshold, the vacant house swallows me, mocking me all the way through. Four milky walls tower over me. They threaten to come crashing down at any moment. I fix my eyes onto a piece of chipped, white pain to keep the tears trapped inside from fleeing.

     This new world doesn’t look like home, or feel like home, or even smell like home. Whenever I walked into my house on Oak Street after a rough day at school, the comforting aroma of pumpkin pie always embraced me. With a single bite of the sweet slice of heaven, my spirits instantly lifted. The walls were a beautiful ocean blue in color, not a white of emptiness. I heave a heavy sigh, taking in the imposter of my home.

     It is downright depressing to stare at the rooms with no furniture in them to provide a purpose. There are no paintings of beaches at night hanging on the walls. There is no pastel purple couch that became worn out from jumping on it so much. There is nothing, not even a gentle hug beckoning me to give this new life a try.

     My dejection must be evident, since my mother offers to bake me a pumpkin pie once we get settled. Settled to home that will never be our home.

     I wait for my pumpkin pie. When it’s ready, I take a small bite, hoping it will make everything better. The pie tastes slightly burned.

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