my childhood was a king size bed

where all 4 of us slept,

while mama and dad found comfort on the ground

 

it was the small kitchen

that constantly smelled like masala

and always opened its arms to passing through-ers

 

i never saw home in any house

for there was no need

to bend the knee to cold bricks

​

because home was the wrap-around porch of your arms, mama

 

home was encased in tiny moments:

sun-shining, lazy napping, silly dancing, cha sipping moments

that taught us that no body of bricks can house love

 

mama,

you told us to find home in each other

so,

when i say i am homesick

it is not for loss of bare walls

 

rather,

it is the sorrow

that comes when

distance replaces hugs

and

phones replace cracked mugs

it is the inevitable mourning that follows the end of childhood