What we call Home !!!

 

We call it home—

as if the word itself were a roof,
as if naming could make it ours.

But what is it, really—
this quiet geometry of brick and breath?
The sand in its walls
once lay in a river valley,
feeling the pulse of fish and current.
The bricks were fired
in a kiln with no address,
where smoke curled into anonymity,
and hands, darkened by labour,
shaped our comfort into being.

The wood that holds our door
once sang in the wind of another forest.
The tiles remember monsoons
that fell on a different roof.
Even the iron in the nails
was mined from a mountain
that never knew our name.

And yet,
when the evening light folds itself
across these unknowing walls,
we feel something gather—
a hush, a warmth,
a permission to rest.

Maybe home isn’t made of things
but of echoes—
the lingering kindness
of those who built,
the gratitude of those who dwell.

We belong not because it’s ours,
but because it holds
everything we never knew
we were connected to—
the river, the kiln,
the nameless hands,
the quiet endurance of matter
turning into shelter.

Home, then,
is not where we live,
but where the world,
in its scattered generosity,
decides to hold us together.