Formica

Class Write-up:

countertops in our kitchen are covered with white, stained plastic. Mom calls it formica? But I have no idea what that means. All I know is that Mom thinks it’s really, really ugly. The white counters seem like a blank canvas that has been dirtied by 6 unskillful artists, when in reality it's only due to a houseful of 6 untidy children. There’s a bright red stain from the koolaid I’d made last week—where I had hoped to make my millions selling the powdered drink. Oh hey. There’s the smudge of ink from Zach’s homework. Mom grabs a cloth and begins to scrub at the counter, before realizing that it’s useless—those pieces of history are stuck with us until Mom’s “ship comes in”. I don’t know which ship she’s talking about, but she and Dad sure are big fans of it. I pull out a chair from under the counter. It makes a scraping noise on our worn-out wood floor. I stare down, and wonder if there's any hardwood flooring on Mom's ship, too.