Hold

(I crossed the avenue at third street last night. I wasn't going home, I was only passing through, it wasn't my intention. But just north, on the corner, there's a deli, and a tall brick building a hundred years old. All the lights were out in the homes, and the house stood dark against the night sky. But on the third floor, a window was lit by a little paper star, its quiet light glowing as if whispering your home is here. 
It had never occurred to me to look at my own apartment from the outside before, yet there it was, unapologetic, steadfast, warm. In a dark building on a New York City street corner lies a space that is mine even when I am not in it, and maybe that's what home is. 
They say you carry it with you, 
but maybe home is what carries you.)