Wishful Thinking

Growing up, all I did in class was daydream.  I was constantly getting in trouble for staring out the window, wishing I was outside.  I hated having to stay inside and wondered why we couldn’t have class outdoors.  My parents were constantly getting emails from my teachers about how I never paid attention, but most of the emails went straight to the trash. 

Most days, on the way to my room, I would hear my mother saying “I got another email from your teacher…” before trailing off into whatever show she was watching that night.  There were so many, I didn’t try to keep track anymore.  I continued to my cramped second floor bedroom and promptly climbed out onto the roof.  I had always wanted to sleep on the roof, but the slight tilt always had me nervous I would roll off. 

My parents hardly ventured off the couch or far from the living room, but I’m not sure they’d care that I spent so much time on the roof.  Honestly, they didn’t seem to care what I did most of the time.  I found the roof to be calming since I couldn’t hear the drone of the television and the sun and breeze would always kiss my face.  It was the best place to daydream, but also the best place to spy on my neighbors.  The neighbors didn’t know I could see into most of their houses, but I always knew when I needed to start popping the popcorn. 


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