Home.

Home is sitting on the living room floor surrounded by parents and pets and pizza

Leaning onto cushions worn in like the memories of sick days and family campouts captured in pictures on the walls

Wrapped in frames but never contained because love has a way of crossing borders

And home is memorizing the sound of the garage door that means Dad is home from work, without realizing that the noise births a symphony

Inciting dog barks and paws on tile, vibrations in the air I once found annoying but now long to feel in the quiet of my apartment at night

And home is how we all fell so naturally into step, feet on the carpet, fingers on the doors, not a single doubt that we belonged

I was naive and unaware that one day there would be no coming back without the weight of having to leave again

Home is stained carpet and scuffed trim and cracking paint surrounding me in comfort the way your arms always have

I never knew things without breath could radiate such warmth

Home is open space and being only rooms away, not a single mile between our heartbeats and not a tear ever shed in isolation because

Cat hair and clean blankets and board games mean family,

Because home is just another word for together

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