My home

They say that home is where the heart is.

They forgot to caveat - that home is where the heart first wakes. aches. breaks.

aged 2, 3. My heart woke with the warmth of my mother's love. The smell of parathas, the drifting mist of toasted ghee diffusing through the flat on a Saturday morning. The soft caress of her fingers smoothing oil through my hair, drifting my worries away. My mind wandered with stories that her grandmother once told her.

aged 4, 5. My heart first ached with the anxiety of not being able to speak my truth. The censorship that would not exist, if 'I were a boy'.

Don't smile. Don't laugh so loud. it's welcoming the wrong attention.

Don't be angry. Don't be passionate. it's not fitting for a girl.

Don't cry too much. Don't be so sensitive. be strong.

Don't sing. Don't dance. it's not what good girls do.

Don't sit like that. Don't stand like that. your legs should be closed.

aged 5, 6, 7, 8. My heart broke every time a hand struck me. there were no reasons. A house was no a longer home. This body stopped feeling mine.

aged 16, 17, 18, 19. I decided to build my home in other people.

I walked around with my broken heart wrapped in a bindle on a stick. Setting up camp anywhere that welcomed me.

Of course, strangers would not know the value of love that they did not treasure. Over time, my shrines of homes in people left my heart shattered and scattered. empty.

Slowly but surely, I've found.

That I've always been homebound.

For home is where the heart is.

My heart belongs to me.

_

Please note: my apologies to grammar lovers. The dropped caps are intentional. I like them, they make sense to me here. Creative freedom?