The kitchen. Pretty much where she spent a greater part of her time. Randomly throwing spices, cleaning up and spraying repellent on little red ants that crawled their way up to some new tidbit they had stumbled upon.
The bedroom. Clothes being folded, shelves being arranged, curtains being dusted, windows wiped clean. The ceremony of making the bed, lounging and feeling the ache after a cleaning storm in various parts of her body and mind. Sweeping, mopping, swatting flies and reading. Working. Trying hopelessly to declare it a no-laptops zone.
The living room. The little seating lounge she has fashioned out of nothing. The lights, the lamps, lighting little fire lamps and letting the breeze flood her home, warm her hearth and lighten her heart.
The dining room, where she saw him eat, work and talk, where she heard the breeze flow helter skelter, drying her clothes and carrying aromas from other kitchens into her home, some aromatic, some disgusting.
The bathroom, where she let the water run on her skin and felt the cold trickle seep into the warm skin, blood gushing in her veins. Where she scrubbed her face and hair, brushed her teeth, dried the floor and collected stray bits of hair.
The balcony where clothes dried and wind swept her hair on her face.
Neighbours peering in, some smiling, some looking through.
Her feet on the floor, her eyes on everything.
How do they make a house a home? By making it lived in.