I am from a home of autumn scented candles, fresh crisp apples and the thump of paws racing the floor.
My home is warm and organized, cozy like a small cabin in the woods, welcoming like my mother’s open arms.
My home is under the pine trees, in the maple tree we climbed, the rhododendron that blooms on my birthday.
My home is dancing in the living room and singing to each other, doing the salsa with my grandfather, booming laughter and relaxed smiles.
My home is the scent of incense and the flicker of the candles I watched while my parents tried to teach us to meditate.
My home is the church that my parents chose and the grandmothers I have gained from its congregation.
My home is Colombia’s orange soil, boiling guava candy and empanadas I was taught to make as a child.
My home is the mother who made our family everything hers was not, and a father who is still trying to figure out how to live with three women.
My home is the hallway of memories and friends, the mala beads on my wrist, my mother’s herbal scent and my father’s motor oil covered hands.
My home is laughter and bad jokes, tight embraces, and my mother’s handmade quilts on every bed.