• Write a passage on the topic "On My Way Home".
Answers
❥︎ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴀ ᴅᴜʟʟ ɢʟᴏᴏᴍʏ ᴅᴀʏ. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs 6 ᴘ.ᴍ. ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪ sᴀᴡ ᴀʙᴏᴠᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ sᴋʏ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʟᴏᴜᴅs ᴡᴇʀᴇ ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʀᴀɪɴ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ʜᴇᴀᴠɪʟʏ. sᴏ, ɪ sᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴡᴀʟᴋɪᴍɢ ᴛᴏᴡᴀʀᴅs ᴛʜᴇ sʜᴏᴘ ᴀs ғᴀsᴛ ᴀs ᴘᴏssɪʙʟᴇ.
❥︎ ɪ ᴡᴀs ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ sʜᴏᴘ ғᴏʀ ʙᴜʏɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ʙᴏᴏᴋ. sᴏ, ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪ ʀᴇᴀᴄʜᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ sʜᴏᴘ, ɪ ʟᴏᴏᴋᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ sᴋʏ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴇɴᴛᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ sʜᴏᴘ ɪɴ ᴀ ʜᴜʀʀʏ. ɪ ʙᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴏᴋ ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴀɪᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ sʜᴏᴘᴋᴇᴇᴘᴇʀ ғᴏʀ ɪᴛ.
❥︎ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇᴀғᴛᴇʀ, ɪ ᴡᴀʟᴋᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ sʜᴏᴘ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ sᴀᴡ ᴛᴏᴡᴀʀᴅs ᴛʜᴇ sᴋʏ. ɪ sᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴡᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ᴡᴀʏ ʜᴏᴍᴇ. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴅᴀʀᴋᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴀʀᴋᴇʀ, ᴀɴᴅ sᴏ ɪ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪᴛ sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴀɪɴ ɴᴏᴡ, sɪɴᴄᴇ ɪ ᴡᴀs ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴀɴ ᴜᴍʙʀᴇʟʟᴀ. ʙᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ɢᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʟᴏᴜᴅs sᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴜɴᴅᴇʀɪɴɢ ɴᴏɪsɪʟʏ. ɪ ɢᴏᴛ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ʙɪᴛ ғʀɪɢʜᴛᴇɴᴇᴅ ʙʏ sᴇᴇɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴏsᴇ ᴛʜᴜɴᴅᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴄʟᴏᴜᴅs, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ɴᴇᴇᴅᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ɢᴏ ʜᴏᴍᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴀʏ. sᴏ, ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʀᴀɢᴇᴏᴜsʟʏ, sᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴍᴏᴠɪɴɢ ғᴀsᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʙᴇғᴏʀᴇ.
❥︎ ᴍʏ ᴡᴀʏ ᴡᴀs ᴊᴜsᴛ ʟᴇғᴛ ᴏғ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ 1/2 ᴋɪʟᴏᴍᴇᴛʀᴇs ᴛᴏ ʜᴏᴍᴇ. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴛᴏᴛᴀʟ sɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ɪ ᴡᴀs ɢᴏɪɴɢ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ ᴛʜᴜɴᴅᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴠᴇʀʏ sʜᴏᴜᴛɪʟʏ. ᴏʜ ɴᴏ! ɪ ᴇxᴄʟᴀɪᴍᴇᴅ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀɪɴ sᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴏᴜʀ. ɪ sᴀᴡ ᴀ sʜᴏᴘ ɴᴇᴀʀʙʏ, ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪ sᴛᴏᴘᴘᴇᴅ ғᴏʀ sᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇ. ᴛʜᴇɴ, ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀɪɴ sʟᴏᴡᴇᴅ ᴅᴏᴡɴ, ɪ ʀᴀɴ ғᴀsᴛʟʏ ᴛᴏᴡᴀʀᴅs ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʏ ʜᴏᴍᴇ. ᴀɴᴅ, ʜᴜʜ! ɪ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ᴀ ᴅᴇᴇᴘ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜᴇ ғᴏʀ ɪ ʜᴀᴅ ʀᴇᴀᴄʜᴇᴅ ʜᴏᴍᴇ.
Answer:
On my way home is a message my son and I often send to each other. But that simple phrase makes a statement beyond my impending return to my apartment. It is—on a much deeper level—a statement about my long-term emotional state.
It feels strange to say such a thing about myself at 50. Most of my peers have a husband, a wife, or a significant other; a house; children who are grown and moved out or married; grandchildren; and plans for their approaching retirement…if they haven’t already retired. I, on the other hand, have no husband (or realistic prospect), no house earning equity, and my only child still lives at home with me. I am a “non-traditional” college student and, at the moment, I don’t have a job that pays enough to support me and my son, much less enough to make any plans for retirement. I am—as unbelievable as it may be—starting over.
Most people I meet would assume that I have a home. After all, I am not “homeless.” I have an address. I live in a particular apartment. My parents, despite their frequent travels, also live in a specific and permanent location. But neither place really feels like home to me.
I lived in 3 different places before I was 6. I was born in Okmulgee, Oklahoma, and my first residence was in a mobile home my parents bought and set up (literally) in my grandparents’ backyard, at the edge of their back patio under the apple tree. Just before I turned 2, we relocated the mobile home to Enid, Oklahoma. By the time I was 3, we had moved again, to a house across town. I saw my first tornado while we lived in that house (ironically, it happened while the Wizard of Oz was showing on TV). I went to kindergarten and first grade at nearby schools—well, most of first grade, anyway.
Before my first-grade year was complete, my dad’s company promoted him, assigning him a position in another state. We were moving again. To allow me to finish first grade, my parents sent me back to Okmulgee to live with my grandparents, where I attended classes with a group of 6-year-old strangers until I completed the school year. When summer began, I joined my parents in the new town—the one that turned out to be the only place I’ve ever really felt at home.