Home is my grandmothers house on a summers day with the sunlight caressing my face and curtains flowing in the wind. The scent of malasadas and fabric penetrating my senses and the laughter of our innocence.
Home is my fathers house on a winter afternoon with the snow gently falling outside and a cup of tea in my hands. Songs of teen rage filling the air and my body feeling free and relaxed as I lean into my twin.
Home is Nanjing one of the hottest days I’ve experienced. Holding hands with my girlfriend, and watching people speak a language I can’t yet comprehend as sweat drips down my legs and neck.
Home is Jiangning. Watching Chinese shows and smoking opium until I felt like I was in a dream. Nothing mattered then, except for shows, silence, and my youth evading before my eyes.
Home is longmiandadao painting into all hours of the night, feeling the stuffiness of living on the 14th floor and friendships that would evolve into sisterhoods. Uyghur songs and guitar, laughter and joy.
Home is Hangzhou. Willow trees and ginkgoes filled my every view. 太极practitioners and evening dances of the 阿姨’s shifted energy to make heaven on earth. Friendships that evolved and devolved, and second chances.
Home is West Oakland, unsettled anxious and in my head. Smelling patchouli, rose, and noodles on a daily basis. Tripping out to who I used to be when I’d visit and who I was now.
Home is San Francisco cries of homeless and babies. Tears of grief, wanting rain but receiving fire. Wanting love but receiving silence. Feeling reborn after reiki in golden gate park and like more was coming.
Home is Alameda surrounded by beauty but filled with uncertainty and the smell of the ocean. Feeling alone when I’m not, feeling your poison seep into me and morphing it into blessings and hope.
Home is where you’ll never find me.
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