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Drabble #56, Home
Photograph Two:
I'm five, sitting on the front steps of The Hermitage, squinting into the sun, mouth trembling. Daddy's coaxing me to "smile!" and Mother grits through her teeth, "Stop that crying!"
My pretty beloved redhaired doll is clutched close. Her right arm is in Mother's handbag. I'm distraught; dismemberment is personal and threatening, and no one has thought to tell me that she can—and will—be mended. I will always have an irrational dislike of The Hermitage.
My parents' friends built a replica of Mt. Vernon; I rode by it every day on the school bus, passed it on every drive to my parents' house. When I finally visit the real Mt. Vernon, I'm unaccountably comforted.
Photograph Two:
I'm five, sitting on the front steps of The Hermitage, squinting into the sun, mouth trembling. Daddy's coaxing me to "smile!" and Mother grits through her teeth, "Stop that crying!"
My pretty beloved redhaired doll is clutched close. Her right arm is in Mother's handbag. I'm distraught; dismemberment is personal and threatening, and no one has thought to tell me that she can—and will—be mended. I will always have an irrational dislike of The Hermitage.
My parents' friends built a replica of Mt. Vernon; I rode by it every day on the school bus, passed it on every drive to my parents' house. When I finally visit the real Mt. Vernon, I'm unaccountably comforted.