GOING HOME
By Suzanne van Rijn
Mom wanted me to come home for the holidays, but when I reminded
her it was
only March she still persisted, saying, "There's always St. Patrick's
Day."
Somehow I agreed. After packing a few things, I jumped on a bus to home.
To
tell you the truth, I missed my old stomping grounds.
When the familiar bus station came into view I let out a long awaited
sigh.
My shoes once again touched the solid pavement and carried me towards a
line
of waiting taxies, passing an all-night burger joint along the way. I
realized, then, how hungry I was. Mom won't want to fix me anything at this
hour, I reasoned, stepping into the restaurant.
I noticed the only decoration in the place was a pot of wilting
gardenias on
the cashier's desk. An odd-looking man, wearing pink bowling shoes and baggy
pants, greeted me, saying, "Sit where you like." I took a seat
at the
counter, remembering the old bar stools I used to twirl around on as a boy.
After glancing at the menu the man took my order, a tuna fish sandwich on
rye
and a glass of root-beer. The cook, who whistled "Yankee Doodle"
as he
artfully created my tuna fish sandwich, was Mr. Pink-Shoes also. In fact,
he
was the cashier, cook and waiter all-in-one. Poor man, I though, he should
go
home for the holidays too.
Once in a taxi, I was headed towards home, or at least, after a
couple of
U-turns. The taxi driver had as much trouble finding 103 Broomstick Drive,
as
searching for a needle in a haystack. I wasn't much help either, since the
city had changed a lot since I'd left. Finally, the cab drove up to the
house
I had so many memories of, and Mom came running out, her arms ready to hug
me. The driver unloaded my luggage, and being a kind man, brought it up
to
the front porch.
"My boy, home for the holidays," Mom laughed happily,
hardly able to beleive
it!
"Going Home" belongs purely to Suzanne van Rijn © 1997.
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