Crossing the rusted red railroad tracks, I walked up the little hill step
by step, and passed the sidewalks; up the elevator I went, still thinking
about the scene I saw. The mother and daughter were holding hands, smiling,
talking and laughing. As cold as the weather was, I felt warmth, and a pink
surrounding them. Pushing hard, I opened the heavy brown iron door of our
quiet apartment; no sound, no voice, I was the first one home. The pale
yellow paint of our walls had faded to the same white of the ceramic floor.
It seemed bright, yet dark and damp at the same time, something always
seemed to be missing, a mother.
I remember Dad coming home, exhausted. Jumping and skipping up to greet him was one of the exciting moments of our days. Though Dad always smiles, I could see tiredness behind the image of us in his eyes. He played the role of mother and father, working, and taking us out to meals; assisting us with homework, and bringing us outside. She wasn't there; she never used to be. He never complained, though, at least in front of us. I have seen them quarrel; I have seen objects flying in the air; I knew what was going on, and remember standing hopelessly at their door, tearing. But soon, I got used to it, it was not a big deal.
I remember Dad coming home, exhausted. Jumping and skipping up to greet him was one of the exciting moments of our days. Though Dad always smiles, I could see tiredness behind the image of us in his eyes. He played the role of mother and father, working, and taking us out to meals; assisting us with homework, and bringing us outside. She wasn't there; she never used to be. He never complained, though, at least in front of us. I have seen them quarrel; I have seen objects flying in the air; I knew what was going on, and remember standing hopelessly at their door, tearing. But soon, I got used to it, it was not a big deal.