Home

Home- is where the heart is... It is a place to which you can either go back, or- not. (this depends) It is said to be sweet. (and should be) It is a state of mind- all of nostalgia. Home is our origins- a long ago, -family. It is much more than a mere structure a house; it is the daily living inside. And for me, it is lacy doilies those gossamer snowflakes gracing the armrests of sofas and the undersides of ashtrays it is these, delicate spider webs crocheted by my grandmother. Home was the distinct aromas, the delights of the kitchen, my mother and aunt producing magic in a spicy bowl of gulyas, and chicken paprika, and the echos of ardent conversation my father's and uncle's play and replay of the revolution, of 1956, so many years after the fact. And home is our pets too, a canary from Kmart and Frisky, my terrier mix. Home is me, as a child, listening, absorbing already with the mind of a poet. It is said, home is where, if we leave they must take us back- it is the warm, yellow glow of lamplight that welcomes the prodigal. And I say, to an extent we carry home with us (though not as a turtle) it is something we rebuild and remake as adults, it is ever evolving with the addition of new family members through marriage and births it is the pang of loss of the dead, it is ancestry- all this, Home is an encapsulation of life, of memory.