Mom

Walking home from junior high. Clarinet case and arm full of books. Heavy with maybe something that happened in class, anticipated living room lecture of what was done, or not, night of dreaded tests to prepare.
There, at end of the alley, the sky turned dark, quick as the wind kicked up. It looked like night. And as the driveway was reached, the light. From the kitchen glowed, knowing supper was in it.
Intense minutes seeped in memory. Warming, comforting. Simply seen as yesterday. Replayed as flashes of mom. Unconditional porcupine meatballs, green beans, and salad. As everything at the table would be. Security fed deep in me.

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