The sounds of home

When I am far from home, I like to think of my bedroom in my parent’s house. I imagine I am in my bed, deep under the covers, my feet slippery against the sheets. I pull the fluffy brown comforter up to my neck and breath deep the comforting mysterious smell of the linen pantry – a mix of tide, cotton, and old mothballs.

Looking up I see my ceiling fan, rotating lazily through the early hours of the morning. The light is coming in dimly through my window in streaks, hitting off of the mirror on my wall. In the early morning consciousness I can hear the sound of my dog’s nails cheerily clipping against the linoleum downstairs, and the kitchen cabinets echoing open and shut. The smell of coffee and fresh turkey bacon wafts up to my room.

I am finally awoken; but choose to stay in bed, not quite ready to leave my cocoon; by the phone ringing – someone calling for my mother. She chats idly about her upcoming day, and is interrupted by another call from a different friend on her cell phone. My father sits quietly in the parlor room reading the Sunday newspaper until breakfast is ready or he has a complaint – whichever comes first. My brother is fast asleep in his own room, down the hall from my own. Sometimes he talks in his sleep or snores.

These are the sounds of home that I love the best.