Falling stars.
I don’t have a home… A fenced in building with identical picture frames lining the wallpaper, complimenting the curtains. Worn out, rugged couches, adjacent to a cobble stone fireplace, perfectly set in front of a television screen, on top of drawers packed with DVD’s and old videotapes of ballet recitals and first soccer goals. Scented towels and matching colored floor mats with toothpaste stains in a bathroom, right next to a spacious dining room with a crystal chandelier hovering over a dinner table surrounded by chairs reserved for each family member. Upstairs, bedrooms next door to each other, just one wall away, infused with personality… Distinctive characteristics rubbed off the furniture into the aroma of each setting. Closed and slightly opened windows, view of everlasting sunsets and blankets of dark skies bedazzled with falling stars… A rooftop keeping the dangers of this world away. Assured guarantee because little girls just need to know their safe before turning off the lights… No I don’t have a home. For, my home relies on a voice. A voice of endless possibilities, the epitome of pure bliss. Wherever that voice is, that is where my home is. Whenever I hear that voice, I know I’m home…
My sister’s voice.
