Today, tell us about the home you lived in when you were twelve. For your twist, pay attention to — and vary — your sentence lengths.
I’m afraid of the elevator. It’s an old dark wooden machine inserted in a cage-like structure that quiver while it lifts up to the sixth and top floor where I live.
But the shaking is not what worries me. I hate the elevator because once a man cornered me inside it with the intention to kidnap me. He even grabbed my hand. I screamed and a neighbour heard me and saved me. The man escaped. Since then I can’t take the elevator without shivering. I still have nightmares.
Once in my floor I ring the bell. Mom opens the door. She greets me in Croatian with her sweet voice and I feel like I just have left the hostile world in which I live and to enter not only my home but my homeland. I finally feel sure. Inside dwells my family. I understand the sense of humor. I can hear my motherly language.
The flat has a long and narrow corridor with rooms at both sides and the kitchen at the end. We have the apartment rented. The kitchen is very old. It works with charcoal. My mom has to work hard to maintain all clean. She is an intelectual but when she arrived to Spain they didn’t recognised her titles so she is not working outside home.
My dad is professor at the University writer and journalist. He teaches Literature. He has a big library and a desk where he writes his books and articles for the newspaper typing in an old Olivetti. Every night he is in a rush writing his column about foreign politics for the local newspaper. At eight a messenger comes to pick up the original. We all know what a deadline is.
What I love of my father’s work is when he begins to write poetry. He uses to read his poems to mom, some of them dedicated to her. She smiles when he reads. They love each other so much!
What I don’t like so much is his work at the University. He spends too much time there and organises meetings with his students at home also. Once a year he invites all his students. That day is crazy. We don’t have enough chairs for all. Dad helps mom in the kitchen to prepare dinner, buffet style, because many of the students are standing or sitting on the floor. They enjoy it, because they stay till late in the evening chatting and laughing.
It’s the same living room in which we spend so many afternoons singing and laughing and playing all together.
Everything inside is nice and homy to everyone. But I don’t think it is because of how the flat is decorated. I think it is because of how mom and dad are. They are the soul of the home.
Writing 101, Day Eleven: Size Matters.
I have never been here before, but somehow all this is familiar to me and, in a way, mine. My arrivals to this land and this sea are in fact a way back home. Here I feel safe and happy. Like when I was near mom and dad. Maybe because their presence here is so powerful and is a reminder of the years they were young and happy together. 
