Jia Parikh

When you walk into your house
What makes it a home?
Is it the soft couches or the hastily thrown pillows?
Maybe it’s the crumpled blankets,
cold from the lack of warmth,
or the messy stack of papers lying on the countertop.
Could it be the slightly tilted television in the dimly lit living room
Or the lifted corner of the fluffy rug
that everyone always trips over
but never bothers to fix?
The folded laundry that patiently waits
next to the empty luggage bag that no one accepts the challenge to move?
Might it be the candle, half burnt, with the disappearing smell of shared memories?
Maybe it could be the plants that change color as the seasons continue their endless cycle,
as a reminder of the passing time with their fading beauty.
Or is it…
Just maybe…
the medals proudly adorning the rooms, shining like jewelry,
telling the stories of tears, sweat, and victory.
And the shelves crowded with mementos of places visited,
abandoned,
but never forgotten.
It could be the vibrant magnets
covering the cool gray of your fridge
to keep memories in place,
to remind you of the love you hold.
Or a piece of paper telling you to ‘save the date,’
inviting you to celebrate another person’s love and happiness.
Maybe it is the frames that litter the painted walls,
filled with memories of the past,
unforgotten faces,
an infinite amount of uncaptured words,
relentless tears,
and crooked smiles.
Within this house.
This home.
These walls.
Lies a comforting embrace
of familiarity and warmth.
Imperfect,
but true.