Page 50 of Rome: The Ballerina

For generations.

And generations.

Brick was chosen, straying away from the wooden homes that were being tossed up on every other corner of Clarke. With a degree in architecture, I understood the intricacies of building,mapping, and creating something phenomenal with numbers, shapes, and a patch of land.

They’d done an incredible job with all they were given. I urged my wheels in the direction they were headed in initially, instead of turning into the yard out of peer curiosity. I wanted to see more of the new home we’d been waiting patiently for the crew to complete. Now that they had, a privacy fence was obstructing the view.

Nevertheless, I pressed forward. A half a mile down the road and I was beyond the gate of my parent’s home. My legs were out of my whip and my feet were on the ground.

Roof.

Roof.

Rooooof.

Roof!

Leo’s loud and boisterous bark echoed on the porch. Anxiously, he waited by the door for possible intrusion. I removed my keys from my pocket and pushed the gold and blue striped one inside the lock.

“Down. Down, Leo.”

As I pushed into my parent’s home, I warned our family pet of my presence.

“It’s me. Down, Leo.”

Slowly, he backed away from the door and waited for further instruction.

“Good boy.”

At nine years old, he was a solid boy. A rottweiler. A force to be reckoned with. His black and brown coat glistened under the sunlight. My mother kept his skin and hair in perfect condition with nightly rubs with a small dollop of coconut oil.

“Go get Momma.”

With his short tail wagging, he rushed off toward the kitchen where you could find my mother on any given day. I followed behind him, lettuce wrap in-hand.

“Sac– hey, baby. What brings you by?”

“Bringing you something to put on your stomach if you want it.”

“A crumbled up sandwich?”

“Nah,” I told her, kissing her cheek.

She was taller than the average woman, but still much shorter than my father and I. At 5’9, she was nearly a full foot beneath me.

“It’s not crumbled and it’s not a sandwich. It’s a wrap. One of those lettuce wraps you’re always making. It was Aliza’s but– Well–”

“Aleena told me. She isn’t eating right now.” My mother sighed.

“Not exactly. She has about thirty-six hours before I start feeding her myself.”

“Good, because she works her body way too hard not to be packing it with the right sources of nutrients. Water won’t cut it.”

“Exactly.”

“Ugh, I feel so awful when she does that. Been going on for years.”

“It stops this year. It’s not healthy. She deserves better. Her body deserves better.”

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