Narrative Piece for English Class

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Narrative Piece for English Class

By | Jan. 2013
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Everyone seems to always have somewhere to go. Dreading the journey to get there. Not wanting to begin but eager to finish I fish around in the familiarity of my pockets, running my uncertain and insecure fingers over the seams, lint and random objects I have grown accustomed to. The feel of my pockets whirls my mind into a subconscious state of home. I do this every day and never take a second to think about it. It’s always the same panic. I’ve lost my keys, good lord I’ve done it again. Then I move to the second pocket. And there, playing games with me, my keys. Every day I put my keys into the pocket I expect. Steer clear of any surprise. And every day I always seem to forget. I doubt myself. I believe that I’ve attempted to befuddle my mind, trick myself. But without fail they are in the pocket I put them in the previous night. “8:45am, 276 Promise Dr.” I mumble under my breath. There. My fingers brush against the cool reassuring metal. They calm my unwearyingly nonexistent nerves. It’s 6:47.

My morning routine is quick and lonely. I am ready with 15 minutes to spare. Ha. Of all days to have time to spare, why today? Why is today the day I am not making my kids lunch, or preparing my wife’s coffee? Why is today the day it decides to rain? Why is today the day? I grab my jacket and my overnight bag. I pass by the old coffee table that is built solidly on the memories it has allowed to rest on its surface. I remember the countless times I have stubbed my toes on the bugger, and the countless times it has allowed for a resting place for the bottoms of old familiar company. The countless times I have been cuddled next to my wife, our feet a perfect reflection of the other. Her right foot over her left. My left foot over my right. Our toes touching in the middle, resting on the surface. I set my bag down tenderly and lay my keys on top. I walk the hallway of my home which houses the bedrooms. The...

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