264 words (1.5-2 minutes)So, I came home and went downstairs, to the place where my mom and I used to sleep when there was no chance in hell Mama was gonna stay in the same bed as Dad, and no chance in hell I was going to let her stay there alone. I whispered 'Mom', knowing that the slightest movement would wake her, but I didn't hear a reply. I neared the white pools of light, gently sucking on my disgustified Kool-aid, known as Jell-O.
I wasn't scared as I would've been a few months or years earlier, but I did want her to answer. I couldn't make out any forms, but what I could've mistaken for blankets could've been her, so I reached down to touch something. Blankets. I still wasn't scared. But I was thinking. And that's always worse. I thought to myself, perhaps I'm 35. Married, married to an engineer, who works with every one of my other peers' spouses, and I have three kids, named Jason, Derek and Sarah. And, I'm visiting home, and the image of my mom sleeping there was just brought back by an overpowering case of nostalgia. And I'm only thinking I'm young again. That's what I thought. Then, Jason would pull on my arm and tell me that Dad was getting in the car. And I would say okay, then we'd all fall into our station wagon, and drive to the cemetery to put flowers on Grandma Will's grave. It was a dismal thought, I know. But I like thoughts like that.