The Traffic Light

The rain was pouring down. like little drops of ice against my upturned face. Walking down the paved street, I wasn’t sure I liked the rain just yet. i opened my eyes, and stuck my tongue out, deciding that I liked the feel of the cold wet drops. waiting my turn to cross the street at the traffic light, someone emerged out of the darkness, and slowly made her way to where i was standing. the girl seemed to be around 14, and It was more than obvious that she was homeless. all that covered her thin ragged body was an oversize shirt, no doubt picked from some dumpster. She came closer, and her eyes shone bright. She seemed oblivious to the cold wind and the rain. Tiny diamond like sparkles of water glistened on her dark, tousled hair.

“You like the rain?” she enquired. It sounded more like a conclusion to an observation than a question.

“I do.”

“You don’t mind the cold?” I asked with a disapproving look at her thin, barely covered body.

“No more than the cold minds me, i suppose”, she replied.

“You live around here?” I enquired of her.

“I dont live anywhere.”

“Are you going somewhere?”

“Yes, home.”

“I though you didn’t live anywhere.” I asked with growing curiosity. There was something about her that drew me to her.

“Home is where I lay my head down. I have new homes each day. It is a sad thing, to have just one home.” She had a glimmer of challenge in her eyes.

“Contentment is something I do not wish to have, and it makes me happy.”

“You like the rain?” I questioned, puzzled by her answers.

“The rain likes me.”

The light changed, and I started to walk across, and she yelled out to me from the sidewalk - “You should go home too.”

I stopped. turned back at her - “I intend to. someday.”

I crossed the street.

And wondered which way was home.

Home

Home. It’s big. It’s blue and green. I share my home with different people. Some of them look like me, most of them don’t. I don’t just share my home with different people, I share my home with different creatures too. Most of them live in the water, some live in trees and deep within the ground. The Earth is my home, and I love to share my home.

Home. It’s the seventh largest country in the world and has the second largest population. I live in a tiny city within my country. The city I live in is the capital of my country. I love my city. It’s dynamic and exciting, never a dull moment if you lived in my city. I lived in a small apartment in my city and I shared it with my dad, my mom and my dog comet. New Delhi, India is my home and I hope to go home soon.

Home. Over the last couple of months, I have started to call the city of Tampa, home. After having lived here for a couple of months, and making friends, this university campus is starting to feel like home. It will be my home for the next three years. The University of Tampa, Florida is my home, and I want to grab the opportunities I get here.

Home. What really makes home, home? That inner peace that makes me feel I don’t have to pretend. I can be me without having to worry what people around me might think or say. It’s where I feel loved and wanted. My opinion counts at home, and I will always feel encouraged. People around me will love me despite the silly immature decisions I might make and be proud of me for the responsible choices I make. The people who love me are my home and I love them too.

Home could be abstract or something tangible. It could be sense of peace, a specific city or house or even a person. It’s where or with whom I am true to myself and can be assured that I will be loved for and cared for.

My past will be forgiven, my present will be appreciated and my future will be encouraged. Wherever that is a reality, is my home.