My home, My heart

As I'd been tossing the old and unwanted
parting with the objects 
which no longer served me
did not bring joy
were not useful
had no purpose other than
taking up
much needed space

I remembered someone saying
or maybe
I read it somewhere

A person's home is a reflection of self.

I stopped
took a moment
The books
the plants
the comforts
the oddities
the weirdness
the normal
the art
the pictures
the colors
   the colors
      the colors

the kitchen still fragrant
from the previous night's dinner
stems rooting in
plastic water filled
shot glasses
on the sparse countertop
coffee pot
half full
still hot
splashes of bright red
dried chili peppers

I took a seat
at the hand-me-down dining table
canary yellow tablecloth
with the floral print
greens, blues, purples,
complementing the artwork ridden
and mirrors
all the mirrors
to reflect
to deflect

in the stillness of the waning afternoon
splashes of the setting sun
upon shelves
filled with cookbooks
horror novels
rocks collected at parks
clay dinosaurs
molded by
young and inquisitive

I appreciated the warmness
and assurance
of the small space
I had created for myself
of myself
A brightly pleasant
curio shop
of the soul

I know
it's not for everyone
but the right one
will find it to be
a haven


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