Whether I'm high as a fluffy cloud or low as a dark dank well I know,
That I can always come to my mother's kitchen.
A place where I can sneak spoonfuls of gooey cookie dough.
Warm like hot chocolate, sweet as sugar, scented like vanilla, it is my home.

Through the fear that accompanied the whirring white machines,
I knew I could go to my vanilla home.
Even when the cancer claimed him,
I knew I could go to my vanilla home.

When old age robbed him of his mobility,
I knew I could go to my vanilla home.
When his mind went and he was put to sleep,
I knew I could go to my vanilla home.

When he had an unexpected heart attack,
I knew I could go to my vanilla home.
When the rosiness of his cheeks had faded,
I knew I could go to my vanilla home.

Through every death I met that year, grandfather, dog, uncle,
I knew I could go to my vanilla home.