ma maison

le 31 août

9:37 pm

Once home is associated with a person, place, thing or idea, it grabs the corner of an artery in your heart that can never be let go of. 

It almost protrudes out of the shadows 

like the big buck teeth you're trying to forget you had before you knocked them out,

one by one,

at the ripe age of seven

Knocked them out,

that phrase sounds a bit extreme

let's just say that it was more like you asked your older brother to yank those dreadful little teeth out as you sat 

patiently

on a closed toilet seat

in the rickety downstairs bathroom of the only house you could ever call your home

Home can never be shaken away

As much as I want to leave, there's an attachment to this house, to the people who live in it.

My home is my mama's laugh 'til she melts into tears

My home is my dad's scent that I can never seem to shake away.

My home is the baby orchard that I get to call my backyard with basically every fruit possible.

My home are the pink walls of my bedroom that I can't seem to ever paint over to a clean white; they have been my little corner of the universe since my parents brought me from the hospital for the very first time.

The first time they ever brought me home.

Xoxo,

Ankita