Home Is...

Home is the quiet knowing in my chest, Where names sound warmer when spoken. It is light on familiar walls, The clock that ticks without hurry, and the chair shaped by waiting. Home smells like memory and tomorrow, Like meals half-burned, half-loved. It is laughter stitched with argument, Forgiveness folded into routine. Home is not perfect shelter, but a choice belonging. It is the place I return to myself, where I am allowed to rest, To break, to heal, and begin again, unchanging, even as I change, Carrying my past gently, holding my future open with patient hands at last always.