Hour 8: Home

This is a little bit of a story, a little it of a poem

a little bit of my mom’s chai that I can never get right,

a little bit of my dads books, those I always got right,

but sometimes they would have really wobbly pages,

because my mom threw them in the water once because he was home late, 

Just a bucket of water, that ate 

all the words

she never said anything to us though, her children,

I think she suspected he loved his books more?

So someone must love us more

Except, love is tricky, and muddy, 

And dusty, and I’m allergic

To dust 

So loving me was never easy 

And hiding that was very difficult, I suspect 

And if nothing else was hidden, I hid

Under books and musics, and broken container lids

That were always too familiar but never enough

Like pain is when you grow old with it 

I could never sit, 

And so I sailed myself away, as one does 


The process, it’s so in baking and cooking, and sewing, and sweeping

None of which I ever learnt 

I guess then my fingers were almost always burnt 

And no other chai tasted like home, 

Except ‘home to me is wherever you are’

So home should be, where I am? 

But I remembered too late that I never liked chai

Until I left.

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