Welcome Home
In my most futile dreams I wish for home.
I never had any aspirations to run away.
I fought tears to remain rooted in my childhood bedroom. I lie against the cool wood of my dorm room to blow raspberries. I go to my friend’s place and dream of leaving handprints on the walls. I venture to coffee shops I frequent and bite the inside of my cheek when I see someone else sitting at My Table.
I dig my heels into pavements I traipse, desperate to leave a chunk of my foot behind as an imprint. I see the future in furniture. I am thrilled when coffee cups bleed into tablecloths. If I sit down on an armchair, I can spend days in pure bliss. I am content in my hyper-realised concept of home. I want hand-massages and years curating a routine around my city. But (shocker!) it is Not Enough.
The person I dream of cannot sit still. They have one foot out of the door and the other in a shallow suitcase. They live off sugar packets and coffee. They don’t even like coffee. They run away to cities to busk their problems away. They call me on metaphorical payphones. If I blink, I will miss them. If I ask very nicely, they will stand still enough to let me rest my palm against their cheek. I feel their body tremble from stilled energy. When I pull my hand away, they are already miles away.
They glide across the ground. They lie on their bed with half-sleepy eyes. Blinking comes easy to them. I guess it makes sense when I stay rooted by their side long after they wake up. I know how grocery stores feel through the pads of their shaky fingertips. I see colours through their irises. I wonder what it would be like to be everywhere and nowhere at once.
But I always find myself at home. My adult bedroom. Expansive and lived in. The collages on my wall wish me good morning. The paintings on my floor wish me goodnight. I yawn into soft duvet covers. I groan against ceramic bowls. My windowsills house ash from incense.
The person I admire lives amongst nothing. White sheets. Crisp clothes. Littered with tension and potential. Their walls are adorned with nervous confusion. Instruments. Scattered art on tables—never good enough to frame. Corkboards house deadlines and reminders and words I slipped under their pillow. I enter their room a piece of furniture. I leave under their Beauty & the Beast spell.
“What do you want?” I imagine they would ask.
“I want someone to say, ‘Welcome Home,’ when I walk into a room,” I would whisper back.
I would say goodbye. They would miss their flight. They would wait at my doorstep until I got back from running errands.
“Welcome Home,” they would say. “Welcome Home.”
But for now I stumble home at 3AM and announce, “Welcome Home!” to the expanse of my adult bedroom. The words escape my mouth and fly to the ceiling like a helium balloon. I enjoy the feeling of the announcement lingering in the air.
By the time I slip under my covers the feeling has evaporated. I feel every carefully curated object in my room grow grotesque pairs of eyes and stare me to sleep. The ceramic dishes bulge in glee. The mirrors laugh. The rows of books stare me down in quiet contempt. I am terrified.
But when I wake up the next morning their eyes are glued shut like nothing happened. The ceramic dishes are patient. The mirrors are shining. The books are proud.
“Welcome Home!” they shout wordlessly. “Welcome Home!”
I smile.
Cover Photo by pxfuel. Edited by Madison Case.
