At my dad's house during the summer is my safest place, my place of rest, my break from society, my home. Every morning the soft first rays sunlight filter through my offwhite blinds into my bedroom. The musical chirping of birds echoes through the bare walls of my house, the thunderous stomping of my Saint Bernards on the honey-colored wood floors. Even the smell of my dad's coffee brewing sends a butter sweet tone into the air, making everything in the house smell earthy and rich. This is my refuge.
In the Afternoon after my groggy little sister gets up, we go outside. The corn swaying in the breeze making the leaves rust, making it sound like the güiro that we played in middle school. My dogs barking happily as they chase each other, wild as wolves, the soft mewls of kittens prancing through the grass, mighty as lions. The soft grass tickling our toes as we walk barefoot through the yard, mud and dirt warming the soles of our feet. This is my sanctuary.
My dad's balding and grey head shining in the summer sunshine, his dark, tanned skin soaking it all in, creating small little freckles. The tan line from winter makes his upper arm a gentle pale color, almost like the pancake batter he prepares every morning for breakfast. I remember the fluffy, yellow tops of the dandelions sprinkled throughout the bright green grass, the crisp red flesh of the apples in the apple tree, the flashing brown, tan, white fur of my dogs running. This is my home.
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