A house that I had spent most of my life growing up in. I am 28 years old now and as I wake up on this morning of a summer haze in 2017, there is not a soul around. The cacophony of the television blaring in the wee hours, the whistling of the pressure cooker blowing off steam, the opening and closing of the doors in every other room, all has now vanished. As I child I was made fun of because I had soft corner for non-living things. I would want to carry everything with me to wherever I went because I felt that inanimate object would else feel bad. Later, I grew up. I threw away all that I felt was junk and detached ties with whatever I felt may have a memory but did not have a purpose. But today, I am that kid again. Memories, birthday parties, laughter, faces have come and gone. Colors have been painted over these walls time and again, now there are flowers everywhere and senseless hangings that have replaced the best of art from Van Gogh and Da Vinci. But some things have remained the same, the damaged floor which once was a mystery of mazes as each stone inside differed from the other, the wooden cupboards where I would sneak inside and hide from my enemies, the fan which would be the only sound heard through the night. We have stuck together through all these times and even today in my solitude I have you all as my friends.
This is my home for as long as I can call it my own, my sanctuary that detaches me from my present and drops me off at my past. When the time comes, I will have to bid goodbye to you too. My presence may no longer be around to touch you one last time or the other way round, but believe me when I say this. This house will always be my home.
Last night I slept at home all alone.