I love my home. I love the smell of clean, washed blankets, the comfort of the single mattress, the extra-soft pillows that hug my head. I love the sound of the door when the fan blows. I love the light from the street that comes in through the bedroom window. I love the table full of cakes, bread, chocolate, cookies of all kinds, glasses of water, napkins. I love the peeling kitchen walls, the dripping faucet, the sink that's too low for me. I love the living room, its sofas (as hard as wood) covered with sheets with holes in it, the TV on the old sewing machine, the toys in the corner. I love the photo frames, full of sudden snapshots of what we once were, relaxed nights, drunken smiles, never-again hugs, affection recorded in a forever. Everything in my home has your touch. Everything in my home has your face, your smell, your simplicity. Everything in my house makes me want to stay, makes me want to look ahead and leave you in doubt. Everything in my house embraces me, comforts me, holds me, even though my house knows that I no longer belong there. My house has worries, it has bills hanging in strategic places, it has keys nearby, it has locks. My house has everything I love the most. It has you, your bad mood, your glasses, your perfume, your white hair. Inside my house, there is my house. And I miss them both.
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