away

hole-in-the-wall heaven, hand-on-mine, honey-flavored happenstance, hers and hers and hers towels, hard-as-a-rock hold on me, home

In 6 weeks, I will be living in another place, looking out another window, using another closet and learning another neighborhood. I'll have to remember to lock the front door and take shorter showers. I'll probably have older neighbors who won't give me their last stick of butter when I bat my eyes. I'll no longer end every night saying "goodnight, i love you" to the girls who have become my sisters. I'll never have this view again. 

I have to find a place that's cheap and convenient. One that's close to a subway and a laundromat and a grocery store and a bank. One in a safe neighborhood with families and a police station nearby, maybe near my job. I have to sign a contract and pay a rent and buy furniture and make a home out of whatever I can afford... I might never have a view again.

So this is what I've learned: A place is only the people in it. These walls mean nothing when they're naked. This table holding my water, this shitty dorm chair, these things are just things. But hanging on the door, draped over a hook, is a pink robe that Kaysi wears in the mornings after her shower, when she puts on make up; And that vase sitting on my window sill occasionally fills up with the brightest daffodils from the deli down the street; And strewn across my bed is a scarf that Michalea wore to dinner just last week. These are not just things; they're my home. Growing up only scares me because I know one day I won't have a wall full of communal scarves hanging there, just waiting to be chosen for the day; one day I won't wake up to music playing and coffee brewing in the morning; one day--one  day soon-- the house will be quiet when I come home.