A House that Welcomes You
by Xyanelle Doroja
12-14 years | 3rd Place
“Home sweet home”. A phrase my family was supposedly in no position to say. “The model for idle vagabonds”. Every trip was a forgotten memory, a past life. This “stay” was no different, that by the time the aged lady next door remembered my name, I would no longer be there to exchange greetings. “Greater Dandenong”, was it? Or just one of the outgrown clothes when a child matures? My departure will pass just as briefly as my arrival.
Entering the house, I gritted my teeth as the clammy heat washed over me. Squinting through the marble-tiled hallway, I grasp sight of my mother and the tenant, discussing bills, housekeeping, the usual stuff. She was a laborious lady, almost too laborious – eyes sunken in their sockets, pale-as-bone skin, and a body that was unable to support the head directing it, all of which I could never understand. She once bore a promising character, but the skills that were once celebrated became neglected, and struggled to secure a permanent profession ever since. A nitpick about being “too foreign”, as I see it.
Picture this. Wagering your finances and time into a child’s education. Miraculously gaining an overseas opportunity despite living in the lowlife suburbs of nowhere Singapore. Reassured by charity-compliments from family because that is the only gift they can afford. Backtracking towards the starting line of a foreign race in order to grasp an opportune life. Only to stumble from a loose footing because of your grounding. The assembly yells, “Go back to where you belong, alien.” That is our reality. Confined into a cycle, tossed to and fro by partiality and seeking the certificate of acceptance discarded years ago.
It’s too heavy of a weight for me to carry.
I wasn’t popular, but I wasn’t alone. The customary reception of a primary school. The plastered grin of teachers as they trod past. The subtle coolness of my friend’s hands around mine. Mirryia. Her ivory curls waltzing like ribbons in the wind. Her smile, a sharp line along the edge of her face. Her voice like honey, too sweet. Her kindness was the kind of pigment that those on the receiving end could never define nor erase. If only it lifted off a weight instead of adding another.
To my disbelief, the public were inviting these misfits who arose from a backwater background. I was in awe of their resolve in conversation, enough for me to question my own capacity. Golden-warm sunshine seeping through windows, conversations slowly occupying vacant spaces, and the flowery scent of cordial. My mother. Within a month, I witnessed a change. The same eyes who darkened lit in their place once more. Internal strength that subdued frailty. A drive to live. It seemed that a load was removed, but not by her. My mother couldn’t lift it off as much as she desired. But how? She became a possibility. “Why don’t you "find out for yourself?”, she insisted.
The rain blurs Mirryia’s approaching footsteps. “May I eat lunch with you?” she mutters, unease apparent in her overly playful tone. I nodded. Peering through the hazy window, I watch a tree tremble, the charcoal-painted sky bathing it with showers of rain and violent wind. The tree was just like me. More than the superhuman amidst me. “Hey,” she whispers, her lips pursing into a tender smile, different to the plastic line I remember. The pause she took to bid her hesitance farewell. “Why do you distance yourself away from me? I mean, it’s like being around people has no amusement at all.” I stiffened. Grasping the desk, Mirryia stood up with haste movement, almost seeming like she was prepared to bow. “S-sorry.”
“Because there’s no use. If I try, there’s no use. Who am I, an outsider, might be allowed the privilege of belonging? So there’s no use.”, I struggled to reply, avoiding her view as I pretended to stare at the seat beside us. Awaiting laughter, I tried to examine her expression. But it seemed that her eyes only narrowed and her smile faded. Her face leapt in front.
“Goodness, who’s taught you that nonsense? And after all my effort in making friends with you. That said, there’s no point barging in if you don’t make room for others. I don’t know your past, but it doesn’t really matter. Everyone deserves to belong and learn to accept it. Now, can we become friends already?”, she forced her arm forward, the gentle fingers waiting to be shaken. My eyes widened. I saw a smile Mirryia made just for me.
I raced back home. The almighty anxieties felt so light when another was there to bear them with me. The sky was a calm ribbon of blue hues and a neon-orange disc. I searched for a book. An unfinished collection of memories. Unfinished from an absence of the spark that fuelled creativity. The same emotion overwhelms me. I flicked my thumb through the lined pages, beginning to write. An uninterrupted, intimate moment between the paper, pen and me.
Truly, what is a home sweet home?
I’ve been wondering since I was born.
A quiet, cozy, warm place?
Or a lively, crowded space?
A sanctuary behind the outside sun?
A site for personal matters to be done?
Where I am to mortally dwell?
For familial bonding, as they tell?
No, it holds value, it’s full of life.
Took me so long to finally realise.
Freed me from my yoke of shame.
Doesn’t mind when you’re not the same.
It houses anger, tears and joy.
Watched you since you were a small boy.
More than a house, a hamlet, a town.
It’s anywhere that changes your frown.
Where you’re accepted, where you belong.
Where you embrace a love for so long.
It’s a community, a place, a feeling.
The one that you’ll be left missing.
A lifelong harvest from the same seed.
Truly, a home sweet home is what I need.
I marched into my home,
Cherishing the comfort I yearned for so long.