A Letter to My Home

Letters to… series

To the Home that I live in,


The time has seemed to have slipped away from me. It was just the other day that I was telling my friends that you were only 3 years old when in reality you’ve been here for 10. The realization hit me when I looked at the ceiling and saw scattered spiderwebs and a crack every now a then; stretch marks, like the ones that spread across my legs due to gravity and age. A lot has changed: the select furniture my mother switches around you or new decorations that cycle through the seasons. The only constant seems to be the color and the smell. A palette of rustic calmness, the blues and greens, and beiges. You remind me of the surroundings you were built in. As if my father and mother wanted you to blend in with the forests, the mountains, and the fields of wavy grain; hoping to live safely within Oregon’s beauty. The scents consist of stained pasta sauce, the musk of growing produce, and peace. To be at peace when residing within you is a blessing. A blessing not many of us humans afford to have.

I watched your walls rise up from grassless dirt, whilst men ride it on the way up. Friends of my father’s. They stitched you together with nails and hinges, making it so that on the inside, there was a seamless finish. Windows, resembling wireless bars, flood light into the living room. Rays of sun bleach the maple floorboards and grey leather couch in an angelic air. You see what we inhale; a mixture of dead skin, cat and dog hair, and the comfort of being in your embrace. The comfort that we made you with our jurisdiction. A comfort that we may be safe within your arms. I feel that every now and again.

We worked hard to make the landscape around you as beautiful as where you were born. We plucked rocks from the ground, tilled it until smooth, and sowed seed into the ground where you lay. We embellished your trim with foliage and the occasional flower bush; my favorite was always the lavender. A welcoming scent when guests first walk onto the patio. The grass learned to grow around you, while also being tamed by the blades of our mower. A garden sprouted in one of the corners, an orchard in the other. We bare fruits and vegetables around your feet and feed them to you and your neighbors. It’s the harvest that is the best time of the year.

I claimed the second floor of yours as my sanctuary. A place to go when I wanted to escape from reality’s harsh grip. A place to go to decompress and relax before I braced the winds of school life. That has always meant so much to me. I trust you to continue to hold me up, even after I leave this place. It’s full of what I know as my life, my blood, and my being. Soon I will go to find my own version of you, not necessarily in what I see in my parents’ version. And I hope that the goodbye won’t sting as much as I think it is. Thank you for being my haven and hovel.