I grew up on the murky blue seats of my school bus, playing “I Spy” and “Patty Cake”, losing jacket after jacket and getting into arguments about how to pronounce the world “Bawling”. I was happy jostling around on that bus. Although, everyday I'd skip off and I'd quietly walk towards my front door. Praying, pleading and begging to god that my father wasn't home. I'd set my small hand on that doorknob and I'd quietly turn it, peering inside, afraid to set my little purple sketcher down on the wood. I'd walk inside and I could feel it. The weight of anger. My father was home, and off I'd walk in quite search of my sisters.
