Mother’s Day has been a bit rough for my family for the past few years. Nothing bad has happened, but ever since we moved North—away from my grandparents—we’ve had to celebrate Mother’s Day on our own. And because my family doesn’t really like to go out for food (“They want how much? For that?!“), we went from going to my grandparents’ house, where my grandpa and dad could join forces to make lunch, to being on our own, meal-wise. For the record, it’s not that we’re stingy; we can just make food (for cheaper, yes) that’s as good or better than what we’d buy at a restaurant, so going out doesn’t make any sense.
Note: This essay was written for a class & is a segmented essay. Intentionally.
I’m generally not a fan of car floors. There’s a reason my mother would pay us twice as much to clean the inside of the car as the outside: the inside of the average vehicle is a gross place, gathering dirt, hair, and the crumbs of hastily eaten Subway sandwiches and granola bars.
Minivans seem to attract even more of these elements than a tame four-door five-seater, and after two weeks of the six of us more or less living in our minivan, its rugs had little to recommend itself as a floor, let alone a bed.
And yet, there I was, lying on the floor of our minivan in a sleeping bag, pressed between Chloe, my smallest sister, and the back of the driver’s seat, trying not to think about how many pairs of dirty shoes had rested where I was trying to sleep. The skies to the South and to the East of Badlands National Park were bright with lightning, an unwanted nightlight. Thunder grumbled in the distance. I glared at the ceiling and felt my sister’s hot breath on my neck, thinking enviously of my parents sleeping in the cool evening outside.
I wished that this campsite at least had running water so we could’ve washed our feet before bed.
Time is an odd beast; it doesn’t seem to behave like it’s supposed to behave. When I was young, Time crawled along, each day a millennium. As I’ve gotten older, however, Time has changed, passing by at a speed which is constantly taking me by surprise.
If one is especially cynical, it’s easy to see life as nothing more than a glorified game. Each morning, the players awaken and go about their days, attempting to strategize their way–by way of school, or job, or relationship–into mortal prizes such as fame or pleasure.