A structure

built of joists,

wallboard,

 predictability, caring.

Home is not always tangible. It infuses us.

It’s when we pour warmth into a mug before the sun has risen.

When we put our feet up on the coffee table.

When we pull a friend close, our cheek touching their hair.

The exterior, a palate of who we are and the best attempts at bravado. The interior, a clutter of thoughts, a place to feel safe from the tempest. Home is the pause after a good laugh. The annoying tune we sing along with anyway. The piles of untended responsibilities, nearly falling over.

          A creation of

               what we believe

                                to be our world,

                                                       our psyche.

Dorothy shuts her eyes and clicks her ruby shoes, “I can get back to my Self. There is no place like that home.”     Home is the soft hum of silence as we lay awake. It is our throat tight with so much longing. Of course it’s the smell of fresh baked cookies.

Formed out of the bedrock of ages, it’s not going anywhere.  A greenhouse where we can safely grow. Home is a few select memories that recur, the day she was born, the day he died, the moment we smile and know.

                                   Home is what we leave. Home is what we always come back to.