I sit in the lobby, on the soft yet rough sofa.
Books sit with me, waiting to be opened.
The air is sweet and soft like a fresh-washed pillow.
I want to go home.
While I flip through the yearbook of 2001,
I feel peaceful, quiet, as my sharp pencil tip
writes my history.
The square room is a quiet place.
Not noisy, no sound except for staccato clicks,
a voice talking on the phone.
I listen for a toddler playing somewhere
with small, rounded marbles.
It’s cool in here.
The windows fill with light.
I become warmer.
Possibly because my mom
is standing in the doorway.