This was the writing prompt provided by Writing 101:
Tell us about the home where you lived when you were twelve. Which town, city, or country? Was it a house or an apartment? A boarding school or foster home? An airstream or an RV? Who lived there with you?
On Saturday mornings I woke to the smell of coffee and pancakes before my eyes faced the light. On weekdays, my mom was singing musical tunes, her favorite being “Oh What A Beautiful Morning” and I was clenching the covers tight over my head cursing. Our floorboards creaked and you could hear the kettle brewing through my bedroom wall. It was charming, and I liked it; despite the million dollar homes we lived next to in the valley of the hills: Marin County. At twelve, I was in an awkward stage of growth: a tomboy discovering her female anatomy and affection for opposite sex. I rode my bike to school; my rainbow toe socks and Converse could be seen a mile away. Clearly, I never learned about fashion. After school, I rode to our local burger shop with three other girls who all lived on a street near mine. We would walk our bikes home, giggling about funny words and the boys that showed off in school that day. Our afternoon sessions were usually wrapped up with a closing ceremony of couch cushions and blaring Anna’s older sister’s music collection: 90′s rap. Then as the sun set, I would walk past oak trees and fresh cut lawns back to my musical mother to hear about everyone’s day over rice and veggies. At night I’d lay on by bedroom floor, with my headphones on, doing my homework with drawings in between. As soon as I felt my father’s footsteps I would get into bed: the street lamp as my night light. Sometimes I would listen for crickets. Other times I would listen to my parent’s conversations. And sometimes I would whisper my secrets aloud, nightly confessions always made for a better night’s sleep.