Ima. I want to speak to her so much, it actually hurts

I wake up at seven a.m.. The joys of traveling long-distance. My body clock is totally off schedule.

I try to go back to sleep, but I can’t. And it’s far too early to go wandering around Bubby’s house, I don’t want to disturb my grandparents or anything. If I had my suitcases, I could unpack and try to settle in, but I don’t have them, so instead, I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling, wishing I could just call Ima.

Scratch that; if I’m making a wish anyway, it’s gotta be that I’m on a plane back home.

What was I even thinking?

I must have fallen asleep again, because when I next check the time, a couple of hours have passed. I change my T-shirt for a hooded sweatshirt — the only spare item of clothing I had in my carry-on — and head downstairs, where my grandparents are both eating toast and sipping coffees.

“Some toast, Ashira?” Bubby offers.

I’ve never had toast for breakfast in my life. At home, we do cereal, or pancakes, or oatmeal muffins or something.

“Not so hungry,” I say, but it’s not true. I am hungry; I’ve just somehow lost my appetite.