Home

It is so bizarre to be home. Sleeping on a cot in my old bedroom that used to be yellow but is now a shade of blue that I would never have allowed. There's this wrought iron thing hanging on the wall and some photos but it looks uninhabited. The bookshelf has four books whereas my room was bursting out the seams with books everywhere. I like to sleep under the window that faces the street so when I wake up in the middle of the night like I have every night since I was five, I could look out the window to see the street lamp across the street lighting up its puddle of asphalt. The trees look different, thinner and I no longer watch T.V. so cable seems unnecessary. It is strange to be here where my things lived, where I slept, for 21 years and now those belongings, those things that make me feel home are in my new home, waiting for me, where my bed is big enough to sprawl out on and I have 8 pillows and little things that make me smile waiting for when I wake up. Rainbows every morning when the sun shines through my crystal and a cold house when you walk down the stairs to brew coffee before anyone else is awake. Here morning starts earlier and it smells like home, smells like cinnamon and pine and cookies and coffee and rumblings of conversation and light filtering in through the bottom of the door and it's comforting but it is no longer my permanent home and that is okay. it is a little weird to feel like a visitor in this home that I drew on and cried in, and curled up in.