Home is when your ailing uncle drained out of his blood, stares you in the eye bloodshed worried for you.
Your only grief is one that time may heal, yet his life’s purpose is to humbly be about others.
Home is the joy, the brotherhood, walking in the streets feeling invincible, well accompanied.
It is that connection, inexplicably unkept but as surprisingly as ever, self asserted.
Home is the strength of the family in it’s faith, the grotto of the granny, the crosses on the wall, the similar prayers, devotion, that God may lift us all above our struggles.
Home is shared misery that precedes us; it is that fight that has begun well before us.
Trying to play destiny’s master, we seek to change our outcomes and the one of those that look up to us.
Home is sharing the same values, being in Paris and feeling a flavor of home, the smell, the food, the greetings, the joys, as well as pearls, ornaments, vestige of a true heritage, a materialized one.
Home is the pain in the eyes of your fellow countrymen, deprived of years of their freedom, hearing these conversations of development and looking back at yourself, what am I doing for my home?
Home is the guilt to not be able to single handedly change everyones outcome.
Desperation, ghastly, to those who have nothing, memories echoes forever, that gesture will be remembered.
Home is making promises you made the first time you left, probably never kept.
Home is customs, prostrating out of respect to those that have proceeded you, respect of traditions upheld despite knowing how backwards they are.
A frenchman once said, there is simply no greater strength to an army like it’s traditions, it elevates spirits and grants a purpose.
Home is that indefinability, unapologetic, there’s no excuse nor compromise, it’s simply home because it is your father’s home and his dad before him. Anterior remote origin aside, it is often where all these lives have been made.
Home is the disgruntled cousin you still embrace, still respect, still root for, still pray for.
Burning to yell at him out of his funk but you share similarities in your journeys, more than anything sympathetic for his pain.
Home is the free laughters at each other’s features, some inherited, others copied.
Sometimes the absurdity in a trait that no one really possesses but others make you wonder how they have been passed on.
Home is those who loved you and continue to do so for free, without much refrain,
Without ask, because to them you are, and to you they are, all each other have.
Home is brothers love, otherwise would have been friends anyways, not only bonded by duty, bonded by choice, upholding each other, in formation, not choreographed.
Home is who you are to your people, elsewhere you may be known as anything, but at home, it is that endearing nickname, takes you to the innocent times you ran around barefoot in draws.
Home is those who have left, their memories, seared in you, bodies put to ground, memories still living as the person was.
Home is the uncomfortable conversations, sometimes arguments over frankly nothing because that’s what family does.
Home cannot be explained, it just is, privileged to still know mine, honored,
childhood memories in place, signs unchanged in years, gratifying but also infuriating.
For your home, all you have is hope, still defines you in many ways, restless, zealous and ambitious, your duty is to keep that hope alive, home cannot be without it!