ABIGALE WEE Growing Home There’s a certain endearment About the black and white tiles on the floor of Toy Boat Dessert Cafe, the lingering smell of coffee, the figurines that line the wall. I grew a piece of home in the table next to the ice-cream-sticky rocking horse. I planted a seed of home between the rocks leading to the creek where time seems to flow like honey and the leaves above make verdant stained glass. I watered it with trust and peace so I would never forget the home I found in friendship. There’s the sprout of home among the faded blue seats that stand as silent sentinels in the 3:42 Southbound Caltrain from Hillsdale station. In the Debussy that plays to the sound of the train, the people who seem to live in a world of their own. In the place where the waves crash like cymbals against the grainy sand revealing shards of shells and frosty sea glass, I hid a tendril of home inside the wave-battered wood. I watched as it sent roots, giving life to the tired grey trunk of the fallen tree. The ecstasy of performance is woven into every branch of my home, like amber strung on gold wire. 128
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