English Report
The deep yellow glow of inadequate lighting filled the living room where I knelt awkwardly on worn carpet, rummaging through a box of art supplies, looking for a binder to display my English report. After reaching the bottom of the box without success, I asked my mother, with a tone of impatience, for her assistance. She finished stoking the already blazing fire in the wood stove, and then immediately began searching. I could faintly hear the tiny voices of my siblings playfully bantering in the next room; escalating my frustration and haste. Only the thought of an embarrassingly presented report kept me from giving up my search and joining my brother and sister.
Little did I know, I would, years later, look back on those times with a nostalgic disposition.
Now, as I drive along the expressway in a herd of anxious proles, feeling similar to what a truck driver must feel like in endless transit, alone on Christmas morning, I recall vividly, that moment, sigh hopelessly, and silently tell myself that I would give anything to have that moment back.
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