Please come in, I’m not worried about your shoes
I am so happy you’re here
And I hope the pot of coffee brewing in the kitchen tells you louder than I can.
I live here now! I bought this house!
(well, buying, but we don’t need to talk about mortgages right now)
Thank you for coming
There is magic to feet crossing a home’s threshold
And I’m so grateful you’ve given me a reason to feel it.
This is the living room—
the couch where I’ll have a million midnight conversations and hold the hands I love most
the lamp that flicks on automatically at sundown so a reader’s eyes never strain
the trillion trinkets I’ve collected over 28 years of being so loved
and blankets upon blankets upon blankets folded and scattered about
because I’ll be damned before sacrificing cozy to minimalist.
This is the dining room—
the table, magnetized to laughter, board games, and glasses of wine that empty too fast,
I purchased off someone’s grandma on Facebook Marketplace;
this one wasn’t big enough to seat all her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.
It holds aloft small bowls of treats that call to passing fingers at all hours,
and you’ll find chairs and benches (more stuffed in the storage closet) for every weary set of legs
come to find quiet rest and a bowl of soup.
This is the kitchen—
Can I pour you a cup of coffee? Milk and creamer in the fridge.
This is where I’ll shatter plates and glasses with good intentions and slippery fingers;
the gas range, dull knives, and even the copper kettle will all draw my blood at some point
but I’ll go to bed full of bread and ravioli
and I’ll wake up to garden strawberries and tea.
The steaming mug in your hands is an invitation to join me for either.
Or both.
This is the laundry room—
I won’t apologize for the mess;
it smells of off-brand detergent and dryer sheets
and the machines whistle cheery tunes when they’re done.
I’ll fold warm laundry here and ignore the wayward wads of lint that never make it to the trashcan.
I’ll worship recently puffed towels and unshrunken sweaters
and lose fights to vindictive fitted sheets and ripped lingerie,
and I’ll consider myself unthinkably fortunate to never set foot again inside a laundromat.
Come upstairs, this is my bedroom—
Here is my mismatched assortment of secondhand bookshelves,
home to the thousand stories that became a thousand precious pieces of me.
The bed, and the cloud of grey fur where my cat sleeps on my chest each night,
where not a single hangover or heartbreak will pass me by unsung.
I’ll let grief pin me to this mattress, and I will nod my thanks when it eventually chooses to pass,
the only reason I learned to appreciate peace when it follows.
Not if.
Finally, this is the guestroom—
where friends will stay the night when the sangria runs dry
and where family will crash after long drives and even longer flights.
Do you understand—do I understand—the gift of knowing so much love
as to furnish an entire room dedicated to housing it when it comes to visit?
I just vacuumed and the sheets are fresh if you’d like to stay.
My plenty means nothing
if this little corner of the planet I’ve staked as my own
remains a stranger to the small and sacred affairs of what it is to be human,
of what it is
to be home.