Home

Where is home? I wander around asking.

I own a worn out compass and I inked roads once traveled on pieces of paper.

I still search for home.

I think I know what home is.

It’s the place where the air would embrace you affectionately no matter how long you were away.

It isn’t always the land that scented the blood that flows through your veins.

Home is also not the place where you were always happy.

Home was the place that hurt you and broke you down.

It shattered you into a million pieces like shards of glass.

But it also pieced those shards back together and painted them in vibrant hues.

Set before the sunlight every scar of yours now emanates a beautiful glow.

I think I know what home is.

It’s those familiar sounds that chimed into a unique symphony that I long to hear once again.

And now I know why seashells found on the shore still whisper ballads once sung to them by the ocean.

Home is what I search for everywhere I go

Sometimes I search for it in food.

I long to taste it amidst foreign flavors.

Sometimes in language.

I long to hear those familiar words spoken in a foreign language.

And sometimes in people.

I long to see it in the spirit of people I meet in a foreign land.