CMC-Scenes E-Zine

By Fabiola Sanchez

My childhood home was overly large for me and was a hundred-year-old horse-thief home, but that is too simple. It was a home in which love and everyday family events occurred.

My feet touch the cold floor and my arms fill with goose bumps at the feeling. As I stumble around, the house creaks. It is a house of at least a hundred years old and gives off a lonely atmosphere. The windows are largely built, and from them I can peer out into the large landscape of trees and grass.

I move away from the window and turn my vision to the heating stove. The smell of burnt wood fills the living room. It makes me feel almost as if I were camping. The brick ground around the stove is warm and inviting. I suddenly smell aromas of food filling the air, and my nose blocks out the wood burning.

I walk into the dining room and place my hand on the rim of the smooth cherrywood chairs. The room is dimly lit by a chandelier, which falls slightly out of center above the table. The centerpieces of fake flowers are delightful and bright, making a huge contrast to the room setting. I imagine how enjoying the smell of the flowers would be -- that is, if they were real. Suddenly a thump, thump sound engulfs the room. I turn my head slightly and see my younger brothers jumping down the narrow staircase. The rail shakes with every push of their hands. My father had promised my mother he would fix the rail but hasn't gotten around to it. I know he eventually will do it; he is a man of his words.

A chill surrounds me, and I notice it filtering in from the bottom of the bathroom door. I open the rattling door and peer in. The bathroom's small window sits above the showerhead, which makes it much harder to reach. The cold air draining in creates a vapor in the bathroom. I quickly close the window and chill at the sensation of the fall breeze. My nose catches a sudden smell of coconuts in the air. I wipe the fog off the cabinet mirror above the glossy sink. Not long after my sister walks in with a towering towel on her head. She pushes me aside, and I bump into the towel rack near the still steaming shower. I move my way through the door. My hand touches and slips on the wet doorknob. The pictures on the walls rattle behind me as I slam the bathroom door.

My mother walks into the dining room with plates and silverware. She pleads for me to help her. I walk into the kitchen. The room is much different than the casual dining room. The counters are a beige granite and the cabinets a creamy yellow. The sun hits the breakfast table directly making the cherrywood table shimmer. My nose turns me in the direction of the stove. All four irons are being used. It is an amazing feeling to be in this setting. I can almost taste the food.

I jump at the sound of a rumble, but notice my mother is only washing clothes. I walk into the laundry room and turn the dryer off. My mother calls me into the kitchen once again and immediately hands me napkins and some salt and peppershakers. When the table is set and food served, my mother shouts for us to come and eat. We hurry along and take our normal seating. We rub our bellies in delight after the feast but dread the cleaning.

The clock quickly reads eight o'clock, and I run up to my room, almost stumbling on the bedroom's rug fringes. The room is dark and cold. I have always had a bad feeling about my room -- not as though there were any actual ghosts, but the drama of the darkness is surreal. I reach for the light switch at the right of the door and the room brightens with color. The beige bedspread could do some tidying up, but I don't mind it. Bedtime is just around the corner.

I reach for the books on the side-tables decorated with gadgets and a middle-sized lamp. I pile the silky-feeling pillows for back support, but I am unable to concentrate on my homework, so I reach for the black television remote control and push the red power on/off button. The small television flashes onto the cooking channel. I love watching this channel, but I more than once find myself not knowing how to cook, much less allowed to touch the stove. In no time I seem to be drowsing away, and before I know it I fall asleep.