He looked at me in disbelief.
"If my family cooked dinner for me, and wanted to sit down and chat about our days, no way in hell would I be late."
My shoes suddenly seemed very close to my face, and very soothing to the eyes. They were going to walk me to my house.
So I found myself running. Down the sidewalk and across streets, and up the stairs into my house. My family was lighting candles. The light was reflected in my Dad's eyes. I felt guilty to have called him dry and foolish. He put his arms around my mom, and for the first time I caught the glimpse of pure gratitude. There was someone who gave my mom the recognition to move forward.
It caught my heart by surprise. I'd been given that look so many times, and never thought twice. Chills. I looked over at my sisters. The youngest one looked up at me and smiled, and I could hear his voice in my head softly whispering, "She adores you. Don't strike her down. Show her your view."
For the first time in a long time I tasted. There was textures and flavors melting together, forming a message in my mouth. "Hear me. Listen to me." And I did hear. There was beauty in the things I thought I could take for granted, or cut corners with.
I walked into my room. There was a feather sitting on my computer. I remember giving him a fake smile as I thanked him, secretly thinking feathers were dirty, as he tried to put it in my hair. But as I looked at it, one side was grey, and one side was blue. I hadn't noticed the blue before. It was discret, and easily disguised into grey.
I missed him as I tucked the feather into a wire holder, showing off its rare blue tint. I hadn't seen him, heard him, tasted him fully. It was strange how distance gives the full view. Now that I could breathe, I could see my own strength. I wasn't too weak to handle him. I was too naive to appreciate him.
Memories of him flashed. Tears came as I remember his eagerness to see me, his drive to make me happy. I'd been overwhelmed I couldn't recipricate. He was outdoing me, and I didn't like to see myself flailing. He'd made me soup when I was sick. I'd been so flattered. Throughout our conversations, I would randomly remember and would explode into happiness and gratitude, and I sought a way to somehow repay the happiness he had given to me. I'd bake him cookies and tarts and paint him pictures, 3-D collages, glass mobiles. It wasn't his "favorite" kind. I just wan't trying hard enough, good enough, to please the boy who made me so happy.
Slowly the feather swung in its stand to reveal half blue half grey.