Home

By Bhavishya

Sometimes, I fear that I’ll never find a place in this world. That I’ll never find the niche where I fit – and it wraps around as snug and true as if it were made for me. Because when asked about home, I said, this world right here is my home. This world with its bridges that rise and fall like a melody, and the winding canopies that cover roads from the sky; this world where a million shades of green bunch out after the rain. This world where days fly by, like empty blue smudges on a page. This world with its yawning falls. Greater slopes.

I made my home with the overflowed pots and the ridges on sugarcane, with yearly tears and Easter eggs, with a great family lunch and the same stories that never get old, with new clothes and the stars we make, with a pilgrim holiday and much cake.

The new, the crescent, the full. This world is my home, my story, my fight, but never mine.

For where at home do I belong but away?

By Bhavishya