I can’t quite piece together how I feel about home,
Because I’ve found that in the last four years, I carry home
In a suitcase,
With food my mother packs me, and
Formals my dad has helped me pick out.
I carry home with me in my pocket,
To class when I’m running and typing,
“Good morning” on my family group,
Or in the scent of a freshly washed, square folded, white
That I’ve seen my father carry everyday.
I carry home in my wallet,
With different currencies,
And home on my wrist,
With different timezones – tracking the movement of each family member.
I carry home everywhere,
But feel at home only when I’m surrounded by the people I track,
The people I fight with the most,
And the people I joke about most often.
I feel at home only when I turn off the lights in their room at 9:30pm,
And switch on the AC in the hall.
When I secretly drink Schweppes Ginger Ale when they’re asleep,
And when I half-stumble awake to hug my dad before he goes to work.
Which is why I realise,
I don’t carry home anywhere.
Home carries me.
Home carries me when I am weak-willed,
When I am tired.
And when I am sick of the dal in the mess.
But home also carries me when I receive good news,
It carries me atop a small mountain and says,
Reminding me that several peaks are yet to be scaled.