I remember a warmth when I was younger, one that filled my body from the tips of my toes to the top of my head.

I remember the open arms of my father, scooping me up after work. He always left before I woke up, always came home late. But I’d wait at the door before I went to bed, and his arms were so warm.

I remember the kind words of my mother. She never wanted to be a mother, I would learn that years down the line. But she would do her best, three daughters that she would give her all to.

I remember my sisters, polar opposites in every way but equivocal in the endless love they had for me. It would pour out of their hands in their gentle touches, it would seep through their pores like it would seep endlessly from their skin.

I don’t remember when that warmth disappeared, I was too young to notice. The transition may have been rapid, maybe it took years. All I know, is that when I was old enough to recognize it, it was already icy cold and void of any comfort I’d found when I was young.

For a while, I didn’t understand why my sisters left. Why would anyone ever want to leave? But with time, my understanding would grow.

God do I miss it, my home and my bed and that blazing hot warmth that would swallow me whole. It’s been gone for so long, the warmth, that home. Even my bed hasn’t been mine for years, but I long for the day I could walk back through those doors and fall back into it.

That home is gone. In structure it still stands there, my parents still sleep in the same bed, still pass the same doors. But it hasn’t been home in a long time, I gave up that title when I left.

A husk is all that’s left now, empty and cold.

Buried in the backyard is my family. Their bodies are cold, the warmth from their skin is gone. They sit beneath the earth with my pet rocks, my imaginary friends.

I will see them on the street, we will pass one another in the grocery store. Their faces look strange and their eyes look different.

There are strangers in my home now, someone else must have moved in once I left. The furniture is the same but surely that is not my family, not my parents nor my sisters. That is my home, but the door jam looks clean of marks and the holes in the walls are gone.

I forfeited it all when I left, but I will long. I will long for my fathers arms, my mothers kind words, my sisters’ endless love.