You belong here. Where the doors are stacked with these ceiling-high windows, the sunflowers are arranged in a blue-colored vase, and the yards are wide enough to contain the feet of our children. They’ll run here and there and you’ll watch before you chase them. They’ll hide behind the bushes — they always do, but you’ll keep on pretending like they’re invisible to let them know the feeling of being a winner.
I belong here. Where the books are stacked on my bedside table, where the spices are kept within your mother’s container, where the bedsheets are colored the same as my wedding dress. I’ll hang a picture of us in the living room, just beside the standing lamp you newly bought, and the guests will look at it with warmth and adoration.
We belong here. Where the shoes are aligned according to their size, where the dining table is our favorite spot to kiss each other’s cheeks, where love is overflowing down our hearts. We’ll still sit down and gather despite the weekdays, you’ll try to cook me my favorite pasta, you’ll fail at it, and I’ll still hug you with tons of thank yous. Our kids will come downstairs and sigh due to their upcoming math assignment even though we both know they’ll do well. You’ll peck them good luck and they’ll go to sleep with a vast heart.
This is precisely where we belong. We are going to grow this, we are going to grow this home we planted, and we will let it grow facing the sun. We will not bury it. We will live.
Written for my dear friend, Sansa, and her dear muse, Lee Haechan.
