My house no longer; my home always

It may not exist physically—the stacked up, dust-covered bricks, assembled and bound piece by piece with cement, crafted by the bare hands of the man I call my papik.  It may not exist physically, but somewhere in my timeline of memories that sculpted my identity, it lives on. When right becomes left, when I lose my sense of direction, I return to that dream—falling asleep, barely occupying one couch cushion—and my head drifts back to my homesick heart.  I see it clearly: the white