May 2013
Where I reside now…is not my home. Well, technically it is. I have lived there for more than almost two and a half years, but it still isn’t home.
Home is where the smell of apple-cinnamon fills the house during Christmas; when tons of tasty food covers the kitchen tables, and family members dig into the dishes.
Home is where I spent my childhood; where the room I slept in’s walls were a mix between the palest pink, white, and grey; the walls covered with my name and stickers, and the Elmo sandbox I played in when I was five.
I used to ride my bicycle down the street and back, and spend time at the neighbor’s house. I remember reading a favorite book of mine, while walking my dog down our long street.
Home, where I would walk outside with bare feet, cringing with every step because there were rocks covering the ground. The bonfire would be set ablaze and I’d get close enough only to back away again because it was too hot.
Now home is a foreign place to me. I no longer smell the sweet fragrance of apple-cinnamon during Christmas. The food seems to be less as is the family.
Where my room is now one color, white, and contains two boys beds; the stickers gone and the walls now freshly scribbled on. The Elmo sandbox is gone and probably sand less.
My bike is old and rusty with a baby seat attached. The neighbors aren’t as friendly. My book isn’t as fascinating and no longer is a favorite. My dog is getting old and no longer wishes to walk.
I wear shoes outside, and the ground is covered with dirt. It’s too much of a hassle to go outside, only to smell like smoke when you returned. The seats that surrounded the fire are empty.
My home is now filled with everything I used to know. My world is different than when I was a child. I’ve grown, and can see that there is no evidence that I even existed there.
They’ve replaced me. Two little boys, my nephews, are now my Daddy’s favorite babies.
I am at the end of the boot, and have been replaced.
Home is where the heart is, but what happens when that heart is broken?
Home is where the smell of apple-cinnamon fills the house during Christmas; when tons of tasty food covers the kitchen tables, and family members dig into the dishes.
Home is where I spent my childhood; where the room I slept in’s walls were a mix between the palest pink, white, and grey; the walls covered with my name and stickers, and the Elmo sandbox I played in when I was five.
I used to ride my bicycle down the street and back, and spend time at the neighbor’s house. I remember reading a favorite book of mine, while walking my dog down our long street.
Home, where I would walk outside with bare feet, cringing with every step because there were rocks covering the ground. The bonfire would be set ablaze and I’d get close enough only to back away again because it was too hot.
Now home is a foreign place to me. I no longer smell the sweet fragrance of apple-cinnamon during Christmas. The food seems to be less as is the family.
Where my room is now one color, white, and contains two boys beds; the stickers gone and the walls now freshly scribbled on. The Elmo sandbox is gone and probably sand less.
My bike is old and rusty with a baby seat attached. The neighbors aren’t as friendly. My book isn’t as fascinating and no longer is a favorite. My dog is getting old and no longer wishes to walk.
I wear shoes outside, and the ground is covered with dirt. It’s too much of a hassle to go outside, only to smell like smoke when you returned. The seats that surrounded the fire are empty.
My home is now filled with everything I used to know. My world is different than when I was a child. I’ve grown, and can see that there is no evidence that I even existed there.
They’ve replaced me. Two little boys, my nephews, are now my Daddy’s favorite babies.
I am at the end of the boot, and have been replaced.
Home is where the heart is, but what happens when that heart is broken?
