One late and silent evening quite a few winters ago, Nosain took me in lovingly, as she did all her children before me.

As I grew a little taller and bolder reading and playing by her windows, her corners told me stories of every smile and tear they’ve seen.

Her garden holds memories and songs of her little darlings, and roses, lilacs and bougainvilleas that reminisce my aju who moulded her.

Throughout she has stood gentle and witnessed celebrations, a child’s first words, and someone’s last cries.

I’ve always felt bright yellow under her roof despite the sundry passing blues. Her walls are tinged with traces of my childhood, my glee, my angst, my secrets, my dreams.

Like birds her sky has allowed come and go with seasons changing, I too have flown miles and oceans away from her.

My mind is not burdened by the weight and harshness of the world, for even when I’m cold and weary, my home will still embrace me.

And so I will march as far as the horizons stretch, until my shoes are tattered from journeys. Life is not always rose-coloured glasses, but Nosain is, and she awaits my return.