A Song for Ho(me)
I think home changes with years, and every home has its own melody.
At one, home was probably my mother’s voice, a soothing symphony, lulling me into a sound dreamless sleep.
At seven, home was the “Tring!!” of the school bell at 2 pm everyday, an annoying sound with a happy rhythm, when school was over.
At ten, home was the sound of my friends, laughing and giggling, a vibrant harmony, all because someone made a fart sound.
At fourteen, home was my own voice in music class, a humble prayer, worshipping music like I was brought up to, eyes closed, heart up in heaven.
At eighteen, home was the little sounds from flipping pages as I studied, a Linkin Park song, just waiting for the month to pass me by, and fast, in the end.
At twenty, home was the faint tune of that song my father played every morning, a devotional song, which I could hear at 6:27 am, in the east corner of the hostel roof.
I am twenty three now, and home sounds like familiarity and nostalgia, a soft ballad – still in the works, with memories for lyrics, much like me.
At twenty three I believe – I know – that I change with years, but now I think my home doesn’t; maybe a few little tweaks here and there, a change in pace, a shift in scale, maybe it’s a few octaves higher than before, maybe it’s more mellow now, maybe it’s got more depth, maybe it has less noise, maybe it’s a combination of melodies and not a repetition of just one, maybe it’s not a melody anymore, maybe it’s a song, my song.
Every home has its own melody, adding up over the years, turning into a song, maybe I am my own.