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Home starts and ends with the marriage of milk and Frosted Flakes, tied together by a promise made of glucose, upheld on a ceramic foundation.

 

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Home is boiling water. The cavatappi cooking in its heat. Your mom’s 40th birthday apron, the one that runs with foxes weaved into its starched cotton landscape.

 

 

 

 

Home is grounded in Keebler’s eyes, pressing loyalty into the open wounds of your soul.

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Home rests in the echo of Kipper’s bark, and how the bellow hugs the squirrels’ eardrums.

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Home is day three laundry finally being folded. Home is the same basket from before my conception, the one that’s got a split on the bottom, forking its way gradually towards the handle.

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Home is the piano and the residue of memories that remind you of life’s moments where you fell flat or you stayed sharp.

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Home’s where you can always find the matching sock. Home’s where you’re never without a mate, or the person that just gets you. The one that you can sit and scroll at a computer with, and feel completely whole.

Home is the spot where you were diagnosed with double lung pneumonia, where your ex-boyfriend threw your heart against the wall, and where your cat laid next to you while it all transpired.

Home is a cycle.

Home has the same company, the same breakfast, and the same spirit.

The only thing that changes is you.

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