The Heart of Home

Branches stretched wide; the mulberry tree embraces all who arrive. Each fruit holds a memory—of purple stains everywhere, of the tangy taste and time we shared, of joy. The door swings open, revealing more than just an entrance—it is a passageway to home. The familiar aroma of cooking fills the air, the flavors of past feasts still linger on my tongue. The family gathers around to play games, voices rising with each round and laughter spilling into the night. The fire crackles with our energy, its glow mirroring the warmth between us. When the house finally quiets, when the stories are finished telling their tales, I am wrapped in a heap of blankets—feeling the care woven into every layer as my parents tuck me in. The warmth is not just in the fabric but in the moments, in the happiness that stays long after the lights go out. There is excitement. There is comfort. There is love. And as I drift into sleep, I dream—I dream of home.