To leave one’s own country,
Can be a wondrous, hopeful adventure.
To be chased out of one’s own country
Now, that’s a harsh reality.
It was a harsh reality for my parents,
And, yet, it still is.
I find my Mother searching for her home in songs,
And my Father looking for words in English that remind him of his Mother tongue.
Becoming refugees was the equivalent of grasping at straws,
When there weren’t any straws to begin with.
It’s like putting on a life vest and being packed onto a boat,
That couldn’t possibly carry this much despair and anguish to shore.
It was when my parents took me to their once beautiful home,
That I realized that the search for their home in everyday life was worthless,
Because the home that they once knew, was not the home that I saw.
And I hope that they realize one day that their home is not in any of those objects,
But in the home that they cultivated for me.