She is My Home

Home. My body stiffens and my heart races at the mention of this word. My breathing becomes quickened and my mind races as I try to rationalize what this means. When people say home, they often mean the place where you grew up, your childhood home. That home is the terrified cries of my little sister ringing out in the night, the purpling of bruises on my body, the screams of my brother and I into the silence of the woods.

And yet I cannot say I know what home is. Is it the calm that washes over me when I am in her presence? Is it the soft hands caressing my face? Or maybe it is the soft lull of her voice waking me from my nightmares. I choose to believe she is my home, not the home of my youth. She is the soft presence that carries me home with her, blessing me with her presence.