remember that feeling when you wake up at a sleepover and it’s either totally quiet or you can
hear people upstairs sleepily making breakfast? and everything is different, the bed, the walls,
the layout and smell of the house, but so familiar at the same time? i miss that.
you wake up slowly. “where am i?” but then you remember. you get up off the floor and plod
upstairs, and your friends’ parents (or your relatives) are making breakfast. you sit around the
table eating and chatting and it’s delicious and you feel so loved and cared for.
everyone is barefaced, voices raspy and hair a bit of a mess. someone probably literally still has
their eyes closed. conversation is mundane but reveals little quirks – so-and-so doesn’t butter
their pancakes, someone HATES orange juice, and so on and so forth.
it feels like home.