The old terrace house,
My childhood home.
Sometimes I still dream of its beige concrete walls,
The cornflower tiles that lined the kitchen floor,
The tall bronze gate,
With its red wrought iron flowers.
Two cars parked by the front door,
One was mom's,
The other was yours.
In that house,
You always sat in the living room,
With the TV playing in the background,
The morning newspaper in hand.
You would buy us our favorite snacks,
While mom nagged about our calorie intake.
You loved taking us to the movies,
While mom always stayed home.
The city center condo,
The one I never dream of.
Its sleek gray walls,
Cold blank windows,
Offering a view of other monotonous condos,
Lights blinking with a sense of urgency,
Like a fatalistic warning.
In this house,
Well...
You were never really here.
Even when you were,
You sat in the living room,
With the TV playing in the background,
Your eyes glued to your pocket-sized screen.
Months later,
I left for a faraway land,
And you left for the warmth of someone else's bed.
When I came home,
You were no longer here.
But your clothes still hung in the closet,
Your deodorant sat by the dresser,
Your belongings untouched,
Collecting dust,
Waiting to be reclaimed.
But you never returned for them,
Instead,
You had them replaced.
New shirts,
Made from Chinese silk and linen,
New musk cologne,
Reeking of toxic masculinity,
And not to mention,
A new wife who cooks and cleans,
And excels in the bedroom.
A new home,
With clean white walls,
And quiet empty rooms.
So I bought you a housewarming gift,
Something I know you would like,
A coir doormat that says,
"Welcome Home."
