This poem is dedicated to Camp Newman, my beloved summer camp that was greatly damaged by the wildfires in Northern California.
In the house I found agency,
limitlessly free in the walls the trees created.
Its buildings crowded with history,
it’s floor carrying the weight of my world.
The house burned down.
I know now my house was just that,
a house.
A house is not a home.
Home is soft-spoken,
but never fails to surprise me.
Home is outspoken,
and we laugh uncontrollably no matter where we are.
Home is always ready for a dance party.
I am Home’s biggest fan,
forever impressed by his ability to bring comfort to all in his path.
Home and I know each other like the back of our hands,
and always say what needs to be heard.
Home is unconditional.
Home shamelessly takes food off of my plate,
and carries a sense of self that makes others feel humbled and empowered in her presence.
Home is a sister’s love,
shining silently on my left wrist as a constant sukkat shlomecha (a shelter of peace).
Home is my person.
Home always runs to give me a hug,
no matter how many times we see each other.
Home is my role model,
proving that it really is possible to have it all.
Home gives me hope
for the future of all people.
Home has seen my worst,
but knows my best better
Home gave me,
me.
Home makes me whole.
Home is life,
a house is just details.