In the Dark

The hunger in my stomach is intense. It crashes, collides, echoes throughout my torso. It's the moment you realize that you're up way too late as a kid, when staying up super late isn't something that happens very often. You can't sleep so you walk around the house, trying to be silent, but every noise seems to echo, even the tiny sounds of your bare feet on the kitchen tiles (which are ten degrees colder at night, you decide).

The house looks different at night. It, too, has gone to sleep. The house in Dallas had skylights in most rooms, and they looked like eyes. I felt exposed, somehow, by all of those dark windows. As a child I would sprint by the biggest windows, crossing my fingers (but not sure what for). I only let myself walk at a normal pace on carpeted hallways with no windows.

I still remember how the rooms looked at night. Not full, well-rounded descriptions, but bits and pieces remain, like an unfinished collage in my memory. The slanted windows of Dad's office. The laundry cabinet in my brother's and my bathroom (When I was really small, I was convinced it would come to life). I remember the walkway around the living room, tiled in a stone I should call my mom to get the name of, when it's a normal hour, when she's awake. Green painted petals on my light fixture.

Sidenote: What specifically designates a chandelier? What does it have to have to be called that, as opposed to a light fixture or a lamp? Will look up later.

I find it odd that only pieces stick in my mind. I also find it odd which pieces in particular stick. Why the green painted petal on my light fixture?

My eyelids are tired.

I am still on hummus detox. My body is not happy with the drastic shift in diet. By that, I mean my body is not pleased that all I've ingested since returning to this country are eggo whole wheat waffles. But damn, they're so good.

XO.

Thunderstorms were a different story.