Dress-Up

The Years had sneaked in the back door, crowding into the cracks and crevices, sitting at her kitchen table, making themselves tea and using her good china.

She used to imagine greeting each one by name, with a smile and a cheery hello. They would have time to get acquainted, to get to know each other. She used to think she'd see their faces before she saw their backs, shake their hands before they started rifling through her pantry and complaining that their favorite cereal was missing and that, really, they'd never wanted an orange kitchen. They'd pictured it yellow, like the house where they grew up, the house where their mother had filled the air with the smell of zucchini casserole, pumpkin pie, chicken soup, or honey-glazed ham (depending on the season).

And yet here she was, rubbing shoulders with Years she'd never even seen before as she walked the few feet down the hallway to her bedroom. She'd never pictured it this way. 

She tried to stretch to fit the place she lived in, but as she grew so did the space she occupied.

And sometimes she went to bed feeling like a little girl playing dress-up.