And I think about the future. The house with the big windows that draw the sunlight in, the big, old wooden table stained with coffee rings, the wall of books that fight for space with CDs and DVDs. The kitchen that welcomes experiments and crumbs, the bed marked with the ghost of sleepers left unmade, the puddles and footprints lying on the bathroom floor. I want a home, I want comfort, I want to belong to a place where it's okay to spill. Where it's okay to leave the trash out. Where nobody feels threatened just because something is left in a mess. Where nobody feels threatened. This, this is the cave. The bare minimum. Give me my roof and my space, and if there is company, it'd be beautiful. Give me a home where talking about God wouldn't be awkward because it's spoken with Godly love. Where I would want to go home not just to return a daughter to a father but because I want to be home. Where it would be a safe haven for all the rest who are afraid of returning their bodies to their earthly authority. Give me a home where the bedroom doors don't have to be locked, where thoughts and dreams don't have to be silenced, where hearts don't have to be guarded shut. And I think about the future. My cave, my safe, my own. And if there is company, it'd be beautiful.