I Missed Home.

The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.- Maya Angelou

The sojourn is over. It was exhausting. Contemplative. Confusing. A hurt on the ego.

But, the good thing is that it is over. 

I missed home. 

I missed the compress of my bed's mattress- its conformed, subtle, honest stability. 

I missed the knowledge of my room- how I know every corner of it, how I could point out at an object in its very place. I missed the comfort of the settled dust that seems to crop up every night, gathers up a little more. I missed the familiar pattern of the dancing motes in the single ray of sunshine that enters our drawing room. 

How every fallen hair gathers itself among its compadres in one corner, putting on solidarity, mustering more courage.

Or, how every little act transforms itself into a self-composed display of synchronicity.

I dwell on these things when I am away. I dwell on the little glow-in-the-dark stars that line my bedroom ceiling. How they stay there pointing to me a simple, well-guarded fact that here is now. In this place, in this moment, in this time, in this person- that is me.

Above is the shuffling of the last furniture that finally finds a place in a home.

Below is the rustic familiarity of an alien home, one could never relate to.

On nights such as these, I wait and watch. I wait for a tear to creep its way because this missing makes me want to hold on to everything that composes my life. And, I watch everything that surrounds me- every little book in its place, every furniture stuck in time and memory, every person- the same as before.

It is not so much that I love everything about this place- this little shack of a place that we have come to acknowledge as our home. But, it is more of the feeling of lack of origin... when I am away.

No one else's bed could have the right amount of bounce.

It is as simple as that.

No one else's home could have the exact wall patches that have formed in my room over the years.

Some things just belong to us. And, we belong in some things.

No wonder, I missed home.

Summers

Summers. 

Bring back the  flip flops, the lawn sprinklers, the green leaves, and the fiery blossoms. 

Bring back the scents of the sea, the little whispers of the summer breeze, and the long evenings. 

There is the sudden change in the weather, the sudden drizzles, the welcoming evenings, and the endless sunlight. I think I like summers. 

My soul sets out seeking freedom in the summers. I can see more than just my fingers and feet... I can drink more water, spend more time in the shower, more of everything that winters had prohibited me to do. Cotton shirts and shorts. Hair tied up. Water melon juice trickling greedily from your mouth. Romanticism of the upcoming monsoons. 

-source

I love freedom from the layers of warm clothes. I love the remnants of the deodorant that escapes into the air when you raise your arms. I love the luke warm water that needs no heating, the trees in full bloom, the bliss of the power coming back, and the sweet, melodious, whirring of the ceiling fan. I love the ringing melody of the ice cream truck. And, i love how everyone around knows in their heart that the first topic they will discuss is the heat. 

Then, there is the sea- mocking in its distance, alluring like a beautiful woman, challenging with all its might. Sun. Sand. Sea.

Summers are probably like your best friends. Giggling at the littlest of jokes that no one else understands, pretending to be cool when everyone else is running along the same lines, working hard to let your dreams live.  

You want it more because it brings more. 

What do you love about summers?