An Ode to my Solitary Abode

It is home, as it is where they are

Location of home has changed copiously

But the feeling of home has remained still

It’s the plushness of the bathmat

That hugs my soles when I step out of the shower

And the blaring, obnoxious banter

That can be heard many lightyears away

It’s the chill from the sixty-degree draft

That strikes your face the moment you enter the threshold

and slithers its way up your spine

It’s the pounding pressure from the shower head

That massages every kink in my back

It’s the sweet smell of simmering cinnamon sticks

That wash away the familiar aroma of fried plantains and longaniza

It’s the weight lifted from my shoulders

From the velvety sounds of my dad’s singing

It’s the rumble in my bones

That achingly, unequivocal

feeling of home