Coming Home in December

I live in paradise.
No, not palm trees, beaches and sunshine; get that image out of your head.
Paradise is returning to ultimate comfort. It’s leaving the chaos of college and big cities, and returning home. Home - that word carries so much to so many different people.
To me, its trading freezing cold weather and icy strangers for the familiar press of the sun against my skin, and warm, laid back personalities. It’s leaving the buttery sun of Baltimore for the citrus sky of St. Pete.
The paradise of home is seeing my brother’s slow evolution into a handsome young man. Hearing him play classical guitar for the first time, and reminding me all too much of my boyfriend.
Seeing my gorgeous sister asleep in a bed fit for a queen, surrounded by an open textbook and a bible, with dance competition forms lying on the floor. Hearing her gentle and happy personality; realizing that it is maturing constantly.
Paradise is pumpkin bread, baked by mom, bagged and bountiful. Too much food in the fridge. Any kind of food I want. Water from a fridge spout. A warm, familiar kitchen. A kiss on the cheek from dad, who just took a shower and smells like soap, who was probably waiting up for me before he went to bed.
My paradise has a round, ornate christmas tree warmly lighting the windows, and colorful lights lining the roof to match. It has shiny presents bursting from the tree’s base, and a pile of boxes and wrapping paper on the couch. It has a bedroom with more clothes, soft blankets, jewelry, and shoes then any girl needs. It has golden dim lights glowing throughout a dark house. My paradise is one of luxury. There’s comfy furniture everywhere, and a fish tank that fills the house with the faint sound of churning water at night.
But mostly, there’s love. Christmas cards on the table, friends coming over, lots of hugs. Interest in each other’s lives, pride in what my siblings are accomplishing. Gifts bought for each other, and a feeling of comfort and belonging when we’re finally together again.