As I enter the room,

I run my hands against the walls that hold 

so many memories.

This living room is more than just a room.

From the shelves filled with games, 

to the old magazines, 

to the chipping paint on the window frames. 

I think of my family

entering the very same room for the first time

years and years ago.

When the windows shined a little brighter,

when the books were a little less tattered,

when the paint was as good as new.

I watch my feet walk across the smooth, cherry-brown wooden panels of the floor. 

I sit on the plush cushions of the blue couch

that I’ve sat on ever since I can remember. 

I turn my head to look at the window panes behind the couch. 

I see the cracked white paint that’s been there for decades.

I stare through the window 

and I see the familiar sight of the glistening banks of the lake, 

as still as glass. 

I turn back and focus my attention

on every minuscule detail of the room. 

I see the black guitar leaning against the wall, 

having waited all year to play until we come. 

I look at the chandelier that lights the table while we eat. 

My eyes wander over every metal detail. 

I move to the rocking chairs, detailed with floral cushions. 

I can hear the creaks in my mind from miles away.

I scan the rest of the room 

and my eyes land on the coffee table. 

It sits on a rug woven with threads of a dozen colors. 

I take a deep breath in, and the table’s oak scent fills my nose. 

I run my fingers around its misshapen outline.

I sit on the couch

in my favorite room in the world.

I close my eyes, 

and the rest of the world disappears. 

This room is peace, 

happiness, 

bliss; 

This room is home.