By Mina Talebi, TIWP Student
I have this bad habit of thinking of you as a house.
When you hold my hand, you let me through the red chipping door and into the hallway and
You – you,
point out the family pictures
on the wall while I feel my feet sink into the carpet.
You squeeze my hand and we jump down the staircase into your dimly lit basement
I am breathing in mothballs and weed (don’t tell your mom) and the spearmint gum
on your lips
You slowly release the pressure and we climb back up into the kitchen and you cook for me,
Cinnamon muffins, chocolate chip cookies, tiny bowls of jello
You pull me into a hug and inside your house we’ve walked to your living room,
And you don’t want to let go of me so
you’re holding me while we watch animated cartoons on your
late grandmother’s couch.
You kiss my cheek and we’re climbing the stairs to your room,
I’m laughing as you pull me up and up and up.
And finally I’m in your bed in all the ways that I can possibly be
And we’re breathing
And I’m shaking
And I’m smiling.
Because I have this bad habit of thinking of you as a house.
It’s a habit I never want to break.