Home is looking into my mother’s sparkly eyes,

waking up to her voice talking on the phone,

and next to my sister lying next to me,

both of us telling the other to wake up

“Get up…it’s already 12!!”

“You get up, I got up early yesterday, it’s your turn now!!”

Home is having my dad come to our rooms

trying to get us off our cozy beds

while we whine and say “I am awake” - eyes half open.

Home is my mother making tea 3 or more times a day,

sending me back to make another cup

when I don’t get the color right.

Home is my dad’s warm hugs,

his voice on the phone with his students,

speaking in computer terms,

cracking a joke in Urdu here and there.

Home is hearing the floor creak to the steps of my sister dancing.

Home is basking in the conservatory

under the warm sunlight.

Home is the sound of Pakistani dramas,

Bollywood music,

Pashto music,

and the occasional Justin Bieber.

Home is my sister cleaning her closet for the billionth time,

Home is the sound of the schoolbuses

at 7 a.m. and 2 p.m.

Home is the anticipation of guests,

cleaning our house in preparation,

my mother’s delicious food,

a line of cars on our driveway,

spilling onto the sides of the street.

A haven of smiles, hugs, and laughter.

Home is trying to pray in different rooms

so that Allah’s blessings

are spread throughout the house.

Home is flowers,

home is fights

and the tension afterwards,

home is maroon and beige,

green, purple, and pink,

gold and brown,

all the colors in the world,

as colorful as the people in it.