Hestia, to me, is many things.
She’s the smoky puffs the dryer makes outside my window,
Releasing warm air to mingle with the cold wind.
She’s the mahogany colour of the seat of our chairs in the kitchen,
And chocolate syrup spilled across the table.

Hestia is reclining on a cool leather couch after being outside in the summertime,
The sweet tea my mother makes and the sugar I inevitably add.
Hestia is my mother’s happy smile,
And her favourite Starbucks coffee.

She’s the smell of my dad’s cologne in the morning,
And the ever-playing TV blaring a children’s show.

Hestia is comfort, my family’s own unique rhythm and way of life.
Hestia is tiny hands grasping chocolate milk,
And Hestia is different for everyone.