My place has leaves and mold, 

cracked paint, stale wood and curtains that sway.

As dawn brings a new day, my place hums with prayers,

smells of incense, and looks like sunshine.

My place has cherry floors, upon which when I place my cheek, a chilly warmth spreads through my body.

My place is rickety-rackety with family - 

the laughs of my grandma

the corny jokes of my grandpa

the yip-yap of my mother and

the memory of my father.

My place smells of spices : dried red chilli, Koriander, sesame seeds, cardamom, and cinnamon.

My place reminds me of the bad times when my mother's coughs echoed the walls, her pain carried through the wind. 

My place looks like heaven, feels like home and mutters whipsers of comfort.

The little boys playing cricket outside, my grandma cooking in the kitchen, and my uncle watching ESPN in the living room.

My place is bits and pieces, fragments of my memory that I hold in the palm of my hand.

My place is no longer mine to call it mine.

My place is where I grew up on the porch, took a bath amongst the grass, and cried against the fence.

My place is peace, and piece by piece it disappears.

Five years from now, it shall vanish from the library of within; as time goes by, and life moves on.