The door swings open
and it’s as if the walls
Start humming a familiar tune,
as if they’ve been waiting for me
to return to the rhythm of home.
There’s no rush,
no need to fill the space,
just a soft hum of life
as it continues,
unfazed by my absence.
I slip off my shoes,
feeling the familiar coolness of the floor,
and it feels like stepping into a well-worn story
that always picks up where it left off.
The kitchen smells of sweetness, sugar,
Cookies, and pies,
My mother knows the secret
of making every meal feel like home,
even if it’s just a pomegranate lingering on the counter.
The conversation is effortless,
as if no time has passed
since the last laugh,
since the last “How have you been?”
and yet somehow,
the answer feels deeper now,
more layered than before.
The years are in the details—
the way my brother’s voice still carries
that same certainty,
the way my nephew’s eyes crinkle
when he tells a joke
That we have heard a hundred times,
but it’s always new.
It’s not about the things
that stay the same,
but about the ways we’ve all grown,
and how, when we come together,
there’s a sense of something
larger than time or distance.
A thread that connects
even when we are miles apart.
My childhood home is not just walls,
but a place that holds me,
reminds me of where I have been
and where I am now.
And you know,
you are part of something
that never quite leaves,
even when you go.
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