When I think of my home, I think of the floorboards. I think of the weight of all the shoes they have creaked beneath. I think of every place those shoes have journeyed to, and how lucky they are to have ended up here.

When I think of my home, I think of the stains. My home has so many stains. I think of the stories that caused them. I wonder who spilled what, and what they were doing when it happened. I wonder if anyone was there to see the incident. I bet someone was. My house is always full of people. People laughing, loving and spilling. A perfect mess.

When I think of my home, I think of my bedroom. How the ceiling concaves into itself because I live right below the roof. I think of the single window, and how the light that comes from it dances with the sun as it sets in the evening. My own private ballet. Feeding the flowers my roommate and I have gathered over time.

When I think of my home, I think of the porch. I think of how silent it is in the morning, before the wear and tear of the day makes it loud. I think of how well it pairs with coffee; it’s the perfect substitute for sugar. I think of all the secrets the porch has heard and how well those secrets are kept. I wonder if it knows any of mine. I think of the late August evenings the porch has been witness to. Filled with strumming guitar strings, summer’s favorite lullaby. I wonder if the porch has a bedtime. I don’t think it does.

I’d like to fall asleep in the floorboards of my home. Have the aged wood keep me safe. I’d like to tattoo the stains onto my skin. So if anything’s ever too clean, all I have to do is look at my arms to be reminded of beautiful messes. I’d like to pack my bedroom in a suitcase. So I can impress all my long distance friends with the dancing light. I’d like the porch to forgive me when I write one of its many secrets on this page: The people who live here, leave changed.


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