To Make A Home

The TV stand wobbles, the bookshelf and kitchen table are chipped,

sparkly pink nail polish stained the coffee table,

and the paint on the pots and pans is fading from years of use,

yet I want for nothing

because the TV stand once held the plants in my mother's dining room,

the bookshelf, once on the opposite wall, housed a set of old encyclopedias before it moved in with me,

I have lugged this kitchen table to four different apartments, slowly wearing down the screws on the legs, but it still carries memories of the family dog begging for scraps with his head in my lap below,

the coffee table, carelessly painted on one end, claimed by my sister at seven years old, still holds my clutter just fine.

Someone once asked me why I did not want nice things, not seeing the value of my hand-me-downs, worn as they are,

they could not see the memories, feel my family in the room regardless of the hundreds of miles between us,

they could not understand me or what it takes to make a place a home.