Door is always locked, because she doesn't want the outside world in. Couches are old, but that's where I sleep when I come back. I can always hear the sounds of rap instrumentals and a muffled voice in the back room; that's where my youngest brother practice raps. My mom always yells, "Is that mother fucking door locked!" And all five of us reply in unison, "Yes, mom." She always asks if the suburbs are treating me right. She also knows the city is where I belong. She blasts her glory days music early in the morning. We all get disgruntled by it, but about time Michael Jackson and the Temptations play through a couple times, we all are dancing and tapping our feet to the beat. "Annie, are you okay! Annie, are you okay!" We all yell that trying to match the pitch of Michael Jackson. She has pictures on the wall of me that I used to cringe at with embarrassment, but now that I look at them I wouldn't want my pictures hung up on any other wall. 
The steps to the upstairs are always creaky, so she knows when someone is coming up to her room. Her home is nothing fancy. In reality, it's kind of a broken down home. Roof leaks when it rains. Toilet flushes weirdly. Roaches and flies loom the ground and air. Basement floods when the rain comes down hard. But none of that changes the way I look at my mother's home. It is always warm, because she loves heat. It always smell of food, because she loves to cook. It is always open to family, because she loves hospitality. It is always home, because that's where my family is. It is always a place that I am welcomed, because my mom's love never changed. It is a place where I can let it all out, because there is no judgement zone. We grew up with each other. We are all grown. No matter how old I get I will never forget the fights, cries, and struggles that I had in your home. I'll never forget the values that her home taught me and I'll never forget how much her home meant and still means to me.