Maya’s Room

Home has a welcome mat but I do not have to wipe the dirt off my shoes to walk in.

I wear my worn, raggedy sneakers and drag my weighty backpack as I sink into the carpet.

She asks me how I am doing. I say fine. Home laughs and says “Fine is for outside folk who cannot distinguish your laughter from your tears.”

She asks me again “How is your heart, honey?” I look around and there is one coffee table with a french lavender candle in the middle of the room. Nowhere to hide. I take everything strange and terrifying out of my backpack. I open my chest, spill it out on the carpet till there is no room. Home picks up all the pieces I forgot to love.

Home takes out some castor oil and twirls my locs. Puts some beads in my hair and ties it in a loose updo. She tells me stories of her past and hopes for my future. She says I have something brimming and full, says the world is hungry, starving for every single grain I spilled on the carpet. Home does not have space in the basement for lies, right ?

On my way out, she says “Honey, the only thing you have to do is tell the truth.”

Home is Maya’s room.