Home

It's been a while since I've written home, I guess I miss the simplest moments I used to have there. There is an ugly couch on my deck, it smells like seaweed and underwater socks. I miss that couch. In my living room there are corners that are hardly covered in light, but there's enough to feel like you're not completely submerged in shadow. I miss that feeling. The wooden panels that separate Martha Stewarts house from mine keep me in a cozy cabin bliss. Lamps set on mismatched coffee tables that stand on stained blue carpet, who chose that color for carpet? Not me, not my mom. It's just blue enough to keep your mood at a standstill, it doesn't blend into the colors of my feet, which I appreciate. Too often have I gone into houses, felt uncomfortable, and to my dismay looked down, only to see my feet swallowed into a murky tan carpet. There are some walls made of stone, and although it makes a bumpy resting spot, in summers heat, it tends to soothe my sunburns and peeling skin with its cool touch. The bathroom, with it's 60's tiling, and rouge colors is the slut of all rooms. If my bathroom were a gender, she would be, without a doubt a burlesque woman with painted cheeks and would undoubtably show her ankles at all times. My backyard, with it's messy spred, a unique blend of "hand me down" trees, and clover sprouts decorate most of its entirety. But in rare spots there are daffodils, and misguided branches that have seen better, less moldy times. The oldest basketball court in the world remains standing in the corner of it, the hoop has become more of a tree with net than anything. The cement, like an old woman, is wrinkled and in some areas, withering away. On top of this cement, stands a disgusting pool that held beautiful moments for my family, in a less than beautiful time. Without air conditioning, and the scent of death hanging so heavily in the air, it created a sense of security, more like a sense of controlled security we were searching for in our desperate time of "after we die, where do we go?". In my moms room, formerly known as grandmas room the walls are such a light lavender it keeps you guessing until you put your own hand against it to see the contrast at work. Her bed is made up of gifts I had given her when she lost her mother. A comforter made of clouds and the color of sage. She rests there now, I can hear the shouting of "pretty people" on her television. Just once, I'd love for her to be on there with them, she deserves to be someones bedtime routine too. My room, with it's manic coloring, manic paintings, and emotional slurs caked onto cold walls. It screams "artist", and I swear to you, I'm not even close. My room is a direct reflection of myself, and how the world looks to me. Loud, restful, and intimate. In harsh times, I sit for hours writing my biggest secrets on the wall east of my bed. Sometimes, I lay awake at night, trying to figure out why some of them are secrets at all. They stare at me, like cartoon eyes in dark midnight. My mom doesn't know it, I didn't know it, but someday all of these things, will be a comfort I should have kept.