Just as poet E.E. Cummings carries another’s heart within his own, I carry my home with me.
As a child, I had a wooden desk with three drawers on the left side. It became a well-loved place of hoarded objects, brimming with not only papers but also pebbles, keys, Post-its, and spare parts of various broken electronic devices. I’d sit there for hours, doodling in a spiral notebook as songs from my dad’s music collection blared out of speakers on the hand-me-down computer. My childhood desk was a home, and my current desk is even more so. Over the years, these tables became safe spaces, places I go to escape into my thoughts.
“Home” is something to be created.
Home hasn’t always been and won’t always be my desk. Yes, home is where I was raised, where I learned to speak, write, and draw, where I began to grow up– but it’s also my car, my journals, my English classrooms. Home is fluid, traveling back and forth between people and activities, laughing on Friday nights, leafing through papers on Sunday afternoons, sipping black coffee on those Monday mornings when alarm clocks beep before even the sun awakens. Home is my favorite novels, my family and friends, my odd preference for sitting in dimly-lit rooms while I work.
Sometimes home is sitting on the floor of a crowded double room with a once total stranger, together facing the uncertainty of the future with uncontainable excitement.
And I can’t wait.
Reworked this piece a bit and liked how it turned out!