The Feeling Called Home

When I speak of home, I speak not of that concrete structure.
Nor of the tiles, or the marbles, or the rooms in between.
It isn't about the TV or the AC or the table.
Nor is it of the stuff that you call your own.
Home is a feeling.
Of belongingness. Of peace.
Home is where I belong.
The significant sense of uneasiness, at walking into a house;
devoid of your moms voice.
The living room, dead, minus the laughter and jokes
that you have exchanged with your dad.
The bedrooms, silent of the secrets
it doesn't gather from the exchanges with your siblings.
The kitchen, which spreads more warmth from the love of the food
than from the flames of the stove.
The balcony has more intimate moments,
than the deepest romantic novels.
Home is a feeling.
Of belongingness. Of love.
Home is where I belong.
At the familiar rays of sunshine, that salute you by the window.
The accustomed feeling of all things inanimate.
The touch so familiar as if it greets you right back.
Every little thing, a story of it's own.
One that you know, and hear,
and one in which you belong.
Home is a feeling.
Of belongingness. Of gratitude.
Home is where I belong.
Because when you walk out of there, to the monstrous world that awaits,
you carry with you, these very cherished memories.
Within the deepest corners of your heart,
More than capable of spreading a smile during the most trying of times.
And after every storm, that may lead you astray.
You can always find the path,
Through the memories which won't betray
And you will come home.
To that feeling.
Of love. Of gratitude. Of belongingness.
You will come back
To where you belong.

11-12-2016
The Keralite Aquarius.

Comments

  1. Unknown24 July 2019 at 09:06

    Good one!reminded me of sachi maash'z "veedumaattam".keep writing...🤗

    ReplyDelete

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