Tuesday, January 17, 2006

what is home to you?

To me, home is the soft shuffling of feet on carpet waking me up in the morning, the sweet cooked smell of pancakes beckoning me downstairs. The smooth yet deliberate voices on NPR welcoming the morning sun. The cold clean floor of the kitchen under my sleepy feet.
Home is the faint smell of eucalyptus outside, intermingling with that gray, dry smell of the low desert shrubs. But the succulents also invite me, pulsating with liquid, gelatinous life and reminding me of the cool wetness still alive in this supposedly dead landscape. The smell of hose water sneaking down sidewalks, even more pungent in the summertime, when the kids can’t resist running through the sprinklers that pepper each neatly trimmed lawn. Leaves falling to their swirling deaths on forgotten cerulean swimming pools. Orange trees catching my eye, inciting more of a memory of a smell than the actual smell itself. The fragile magenta glow of bougainvilleas dancing across a sea of thorny khakis and grays.
Home is the sleek sides of SUV’s, snaking through concrete mazes to reach the oasis of a freeway. Cars driving fast with windows always open, blasting catchy music into the dry and fragrant air of the city around it. Cars barely driving at all, a slow rhythm of back and forward momentum, forever staring into the two red cyclones of plastic light before you.
Home is a bubbling night, full of youthful ignoramus, drowning itself in lights and bony tanned flesh and booze. The beauty of the night only lies in the reflection of streetlights off the asphalt, fashionable bodies stumbling and laughing into the warm winter night, the stars barely visible but watchful.

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