Ode to Home

Home is a sensory memory ⸺ 
It’s the scent of sweat and sawdust brewed inside a wool sweater,  
the crack in a well-loved teapot,  
the thawing of cold hands under the tap at my grandmother's kitchen sink. 

Here, where trees stand behind glass,  
home becomes a place I must forge on my own —  
and yet I feel a quiet pull toward the people and landscapes left behind. 

Here, I leave my window open.  
Here, there are no screens, bugs aren't a concern.  
Once, a bird flew in, circled the room, and found its way out.  
Wrong birdhouse. 

  
We all get lost sometimes.