A View From My Bedroom Window Essay

A View From My Bedroom Window Essay-74
We had made a sign for the door—Welcome Home—but that didn’t appear to register.Even before she went inside, I understood that the pizza we had watched the pizza man spin almost to the ceiling, the cupcakes for dessert, and the grocery store flowers my father had arranged in a beer bottle on the tiny counter top would not be sufficient to create, for my mother, a mood of celebration.

We had made a sign for the door—Welcome Home—but that didn’t appear to register.Even before she went inside, I understood that the pizza we had watched the pizza man spin almost to the ceiling, the cupcakes for dessert, and the grocery store flowers my father had arranged in a beer bottle on the tiny counter top would not be sufficient to create, for my mother, a mood of celebration.

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The result of my father’s insistence, my mother’s reluctance, was my father rolling from the bed, then shuffling out to where I sensed I should pretend still to sleep. He slid one strong arm under my knees, another behind my shoulders, and lifted.

I fought to suppress a smile of anticipation, expecting to be carried in to share with them the wonderful discovery they had made, the cause of their laughter.

(To be honest: I’m not sure how many of those things I took in that first night; but they were there the next morning, when the overall impression of neglect and decay hardened the fear in my stomach.) I had just started to think that if we went far enough we’d get away from this kind of place, we’d reach another road with bright lights and hotels and restaurants, when my father slowed down, then stopped, then backed up. “Camelot.” He had told me his version of the legend of King Arthur on the ride.

We had sung songs, and told riddles, and played games using the letters on billboards.

When we finally left the highway, he said, “Home at last.” There at our exit were three big hotels and a restaurant called the Kountry Kitchen and another called Noah’s and a go-kart track.

My attention lingered on the go-kart track, which was closed.

Later, while we drove, my father wedged a paper cup between the dash and the windshield and had me take shots with a crumpled cigarette package, narrating like a commentator on TV.

We were football fans, my father and I, but we would play any game that presented itself.

My father could always be depended on to think of something interesting to do.

On the edge of a field across from the entrance to the Natural Bridge, in Virginia (which we did not see, as there was an admission charge), we ate sandwiches my mother had packed, and played a game he invented using two sticks and a crabapple.

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