"Home"

I'm going home soon. Not my apartment, but the home I lived in for most of my life. I still call it "home" even though I haven't lived there for about ten years. It's still so clear to me though.

Every time I come home, the kitchen floor is unbearably cold. This is why my mother keeps a hideously colorful pair of Asian slippers by the threshold of the kitchen. There are large jars of curious concoctions on counters and on the floor. When I open the refrigerator, I see similarly mysterious glass jars on each row. I push them aside to find the recognizable can of soda or carton of juice. Above the sink is a modest window that overlooks a large yard. Right now there is probably a blanket of white snow concealing the yellowed grass and weeds beneath. The house is always cold because my mother is bent on saving on electricity and gas.

Every time I come home, I can't tell if the house feels bigger or smaller than when I last visited. It is exactly the same, but at the same time slightly different. When I'm in my studio apartment and have trouble sleeping, I close my eyes and imagine myself in my house. I float in through the front doors, up the carpeted stairs into the hallway, into my bedroom, last door on the right. The wallpaper--the same as when we first moved in--is charmingly gaudy with its orange, white, and pink flowers. My bed is always freezing cold but after a few minutes, it becomes very very warm. I lie on my right side, close my eyes, and envision that the old dresser is in front of me, one of the windows is behind me, and, behind the wall against which my bed rests, I can discern the unmistakable rumble of my father's snoring.

It is so clear in my mind's eye that I almost forget that I am over 700 miles away, that I'm really inside a tiny studio, living alone in a very large city where pickpockets abound. I don't mind the occasional noise of my upstairs or next door neighbors in the building. There's a quiet comfort in the sound of people creaking upstairs or talking in the hallway. It's nice to know you're not alone.