familiarity {petra}

❝Think twice before you speak because your words and influence will plant the seed of success of failure in the mind of another.❞

---

The sun is beginning to rise as I leave the safety of my bed and drag myself across the dilapidated floor boards. I can hear the gentle whispers coming from my brothers' room as I push myself past their door and out of the hallway. I eventually reach the door and open it slowly. A creak escapes from the rusty hinges as I take a step outside. I exhale a yawn and look up to the sky with a smile of my face. It was dawn, my favourite time of any day. I loved the way all the colours mixed together so smoothly, creating a array of glorious shades bursting from the sun and night sky. My head falls as I glance over towards the tree who is a good friend to me. My hands lifts and holds out for her. I know she won't come from the other side and take ahold of my delicate palm, but I imagine it. Her touch is warm and familiar, like most of the time.

I head back inside, throwing my itchy pyjamas off. They rub around my neck, making wearing them far from pleasant. The two piece set were once a shadeof a confident blue, but this colour has since faded into an almost grey. It's a relief to have them off of y body and see them lying lifeless and alone on the floor. I pick up my fresh set of clothes (which I set out yesterday) and put them only slowly. These are much better than those pyjamas, not itchy or annoying. They are a snug fit which is a feeling I am fond of.

After exiting our shack once more, I hear the gentle pitter-pattering of my brothers and parents awakening from their slumber. My feet step out of our abode and into a world of opportunity. I look across the muddy dirt path to my tree and wander over to her happily. She lets me climb her, so I do and I rest myself on a thick, wrinkly branch about halfway up the tree. I exhale, this is the only place I feel safe. My own space, my own world and my own friend. I feel as if nothing can harm me, yet I am constantly keeping an eye out for a Peacekeeper. Everytime I see one whilst I'm up her my heart drops. Thankfully, they've never noticed me.

I sing a quiet lullaby to myself as I watch the sky above slowly pass by. A lullaby my mother sung to me as a young child. Some birds launch themselves out of the tops of some other trees and cascade across the treetops as if performing an elegant dance. My lullaby is interrupted when my father slams the front door shut. I stop my singing and watch him from above. He doesn't look happy, but he's never happy. No one can be happy when they're bringing home just enough to see their family through one, maybe two meals at a push.

My expression changes and I feel as if I need to leave the comfort of my tree and head back inside, joining my brothers and mother. I am guided down by the tree, using various stumps and floppy branches which protrude from her sides like she has been brutally stabbed. I jump down from the second branch up and land shakily on my feet. I go inside and my mother tells me that she is going to teach me a new recipe. I smile, but notice this is odd of her. She never usually teaches me a recipe, she expects me to invent my own. I dismiss her bizarre behavior and stare at my mothers actions. Her words are just going in one ear an out the other. I smile and nod occasionally so that I don't look completely vacant and unaware of what is going on.

I feel a weight off my shoulders when the lesson is over. I thank my mother and head to my room with a sigh. I leave too quickly before she can ask me what's wrong. I sit looking out of my small, blurry window and watch raindrops fall from the roof above. I exhale a warm breath onto the window pane and draw a cat. It quickly fades away and I am left with nothing but a memory and a window with some barely visible finger marks on. I should probably be doing something more productive than this, like practising the recipe I had just supposedly "learnt". I begin to think, but the future distracts me from the present. I really should learn that recipe. I swallow and head back into the kitchen.

For around half an hour I chop vegetables and throw them into a pot. I leave them in the bursting boiling water so that their juices can be freed. My mother said that this is a recipe her mother once taught her an has been passed down through our family. She said it would be a shame if I did not 'master it'. I continue with the cooking, my mother going over the method as I do so. I half-pay attention to her words as I throw various amounts of whatnot into the pot. I notice that my brothers are watching. They are probably whispering to each other about how much I look like our mother, but I ignore them and carry on. After a short time and continually stirring a boiling pot, I am finished and take a spoonful of the meal to feed to my mother. She said I need to add more lavender. I give myself a spoonful and raise my eyebrows at the flavour. I am surprised at how the flavours of random ingredients found in our house can come together to make a meal so neat and tidy.

"I don't think I needed to add any more lavender." I say aloud, smiling at my creation, feeling proud.