My home is my refuge. 

Coming home is like
embracing a friend,
an enclosure of comfort,
a cocoon of familiarity,
and a protector. 

The open glass window on a hot,
humid afternoon
with a slight breeze blowing,
like a baby breathing,
through the lazy air
makes my house
home. 

The tiny golden leaves
and elaborate decorations
on the many glasses and vases
fill up the black wooden hutch in the kitchen.

The black Yamaha keyboard wall piano
stands
against the light
creamer-filled,
coffee-colored living room wall. 

Music scores outnumber everything else
in my miniature white bookshelf. 
Tchaikovsky fills up the room
while I fold laundry,
still warm from the drying machine.

The unique aroma of
white rice and
chicken stir fry,
vividly and vibrantly colored,
wafts upstairs. 

I shut out my first world problems,
like not sleeping enough
or not having enough time
to practice
my Scott Cao violin,
by turning the smooth,
two-inch silver lock
counter-clockwise. 

Drinking one of a kind,
homemade hot chocolate
while watching Grey’s Anatomy
provides me with
a sensational feeling,
like taking a hot bath
after sledding in snow. 

The pictures
of family and friends
from Christmas 2011
on the purple
cloth-covered bulletin
hangs against the white wall
in my room. 

Coming home means
a weight
unattaching itself
from my shoulders. 

These small pieces of home
feel like a
treasure chest
to me.