What I Call… Home
Written by: Anne Bronte (poet who wrote about the essence of home)

The foundation of childhood lives within a park. It’s where excitement thrives wildly, it’s where rules are fiercely crossed, and bruises gallantly earned. Adventure becomes our parent’s worst fear. It’s the first steps into this massive and frightening environment that we call earth. Sun glimmering against the light film of sweat dripping down the temples of the youth. The playground becomes our village. Working tirelessly to steer a boat the size of the titanic with only a plastic wheel and the view of trees ahead and pumping fearlessly to soar higher upon the swings only seeing the tops of our shoes contrasting with the sky’s vibrant schemes. The world shrinks as the footsteps increase rapidly upon the bark, mere steps from the great city built with massive yellow poles, twisting and swirling blue slides, and roofs above platforms with steps so grand a mansion couldn’t compare. Grasping the first tastes of freedom with each slide slid without the comforting arms of mom. Fear controls no one forever in this village, limits don’t exist rather than layover. Climbing what will forever be the grandest of canyons, the accomplishment widens the smiles displaying the gaps of teeth yet to be filled, enhancing the heavy breaths of perseverance, and expanding the line of sight to a new world. As the sun’s rays spread then recede across the parks canvas like the ocean’s tide, the day comes to a close. Sleepy eyelids sentence the village to sleep. Night embraces the park and waits for the next sunrise. As years pass, this village that once sourced endless fun remains as the safe and comforting place it always was; home.

Growing up, the beach was always a part of my life, today, nothing has changed. Beginning in the gravel parking lot slots fill with a plethora of cars. The transition from the lot to the beach defines the difference between reality and heaven. The moment I touch the beach, sand embraces my feet flooding my senses with warmth. The sky as blue as the deep ocean laying on the horizon, seeming to continue forever. Bushes hide the world behind me, isolating the beach like an island. With just a slight head tilt to the left, statues of powerful, dominating rocks tower over the beach. Up and up, the climb seems to never end. The obstacle of finding foot and hand placements as the tide rises and the waves crash steadily but dangerously behind me becomes a game. Looking out onto the ocean, I feel alive. To the right lays a long, curved stretch of beach. Hills roam in the distance, waves mold into white lumps, and houses display colored dots. In the water, waves big enough to send pure fear coursing through your veins rise. The choice to swim underneath or jump over with only a body board to protect you from the waves, is a quick and influential one. One choice will allow you to freely continue experiencing the ocean’s beauty, the other sends you tumbling with the ocean’s fury, directions unknown, light untraceable. Somehow, there is a key to being at the beach, seals surface nearby, crabs lay stranded on sand, and jellyfish captivate the open waters. The unanswered questions, worries, and regrets float away into the sea. It is a fresh start, it is reliable and steady, it is home.

No matter where I am, continent, country, state, or city, I will never be away from home with my family in my life. My children, adults with their own children at this age, will live nearby. Traveling throughout the world with my beloved, we will explore all that the world has to offer. My mother’s memory a divine essence. The heritage from which I come from tying me to my relatives. My grandfather, uncle, aunts, friends, and all other influential beings in my life that have passed by the time that I am 75, will live strongly in my memory. Lessons from adolescence will be learned, wise and thoughtful decisions will consume the credit for the life I live by then. Driving in the bay area, the root of my childhood, the sunsets won’t change. An array of bright and vivid colors, more extravagant than any art piece, will expand throughout the sky. Through the dashboard, familiar markers will remind me of my childhood. The Golden Gate bridge, with its extensive towers, will loom atop the fog disappearing into the mountain side and into a concrete jungle. Peering out into the world I once used to see as so vast and new, I will see my grandchildren and my children knowing that I lived to impress them. I lived to create a beautiful world where they could thrive and avoid the struggles of poverty, genocide, war, and inequality. I will truly understand the essence of woman and motherhood. I will look out into the world with the same wondrous expression as when I was once fifteen, only this time I will be more enlightened and experienced.
