People often say
that home is where the heart is
and if you asked me
where my home is
I don't know if I would spout off my address
or if I would say
That home to me
is waves crashing on the shore
and the scent of salt in the air
and worn down buildings
and cement stairs
and the sound of flip flops on gravel
and squeaky doors and broken stoves
and ugly bedding.
Home is where kites fly high above,
where cousins swing on rusty swing sets,
and dogs run.
Home is where all the paintings look the same,
and there's a bell in the little shop,
and when you can just tell when you're almost there,
and you've broken out of the trees,
and the cliffs are coming up.
Home is where reeds slap your legs,
where the water is icy cold.
Home is the start of summer,
and comfort food,
and sodas kept in a cooler.
Home is camp fires
and camping chairs,
and little condos
where the floor always has a fine layer of sand covering it,
and the chairs squeak,
and no one can quite figure out the microwave,
or where they've put the spoons this year.
Home is a little balcony
connected to my aunt's room
where dogs squeeze through the bars from one room to another,
and where I can curl up with a book,
and look out over the waves.
while home is the brick house I've lived in,
for my entire life,
home is also on the beach shore
at the start of every summer.