To be Home

I have dreams of coming home.

From time to time, I try to visualize the calm of being home. The hum of joy I find in having my mother’s fish curry, the freshly brewed coffee, the astonishing shade of green when light passes through the plantain leaves, the glory of waking up after a nap to the clinking vessels in our kitchen. It all sounds like luxury, in a city far from home, where I exist in a limbo bereft of my entire soul.

I exist in halves.

Devoid of my entirety.

 Yet what you might fail to notice is how carefully picked are the memories of serenity I long for. They are handpicked from amidst all the miseries, the lament, the screams and hatred. The microaggressions, the control, the oppression, the frustration and pain. Despite the torment, I find a way to romanticize my favorite shade of green and the hot cup of tea after that nap. That maybe my boon and bane, to exist in halves. To long for, and yet at the same time to be scared of.