One thing that brings me comfort is a cloud. I can get away from the world and bring myself back. My opaque mind is sent away and I am back to my old self. It is a diary. My house, my own little island, has a lot of amenities. It gives me the ideas by playing the memories of the past on a cassette. I could just stare and conjure myself as a kid and it helps provide me feedback. My house, the sun, is sublime. It is built to perfection. My seraphic home is blue, which is my beautiful sky.
My house, a great wonder, is 2 stories tall. It’s not a lot to offer but I love it. Our yard flourishes with a garden that curves around our house like a snake. I can touch the sky in my backyard by flying off the swings. Inside, my kitchen allows me to create an aroma of spices and herbs. My living room is a place to stretch out my stressful legs. The garage is our cellar filled with miscellaneous junk. The master bedroom allows me to creep inside to find comfort whenever I nightmare. My dad’s room is a room that repels me because of its smell. Its fragrance is of dirty laundry and burnt cookies. The most benign room is under my ownership. It tells me to come into a mirage and transcend to different realms as I dream. It contains a store filled with clothes and accessories.

Before, I was skeptical. It never spoke to me. It was a mouse. That was before the memories were stapled into me. I was ignorant because I wanted to go anywhere but home when I was a mischievous girl. I would look at how we don’t have shutters. I would feel like a recluse because I would have a television in my head watching the kids play. It was dilapidated in my eyes.
When I would come home there would be a thunderstorm inside. Rain clouds cumulated until I couldn’t even hear what my parents said. Their mouths moved vigorously, their temples thumped, their fists clenched, and their eyebrows were lowered. My sister and I would watch hail from the stairs. We would hide in fear but nothing could ever stop it. Unless, there was a cymbal to wake them up-a showstopper. When the rainstorm was finished, we’d run upstairs and hide. I hated the house. It was hell.


Other times, I don’t know what I would do without it. Television was my drug and the house gave us so many provisions to store. It was like a magnet and attracts the Bengalis to come and chat. Then my day would be enlightened. I would play with all the other kids and be proud of my home. I thought everyone had a home like me. I never saw the reason for a larger island. Mine was immaculate.

My house never brought my family together. It was an outcast and never bothered to help us. My family’s history is like a rollercoaster. One time everyone’s tight-knit, and the next day it plummets into a pile of debris.

I love my house regardless of its condition and I love it because it is a factor that made a part of me. Home is home no matter what, and nothing can ever change that.