I have often wondered
about my roots
if I have them
at all
or am I a hyacinth
that will always be afloat
I’ve lived in more houses
than the next one
and yet
none have felt like home
and when I reflect
my earliest drawings have been of houses
from those first huts we drew
all of us
a rectangle, a triangle
and a bush and a tree
and three triangles and half that were mountains
the ticks for birds
a sun and a moon
a cloud and some stars
depending on day or night
and a meandering river, always
which have now graduated
to Pinterest boards
saved reels and posts
of houses in Bali
in Sri Lanka
we bought our first house
a flat on the top floor
where I have plants
and skies
with chaotic beginnings
and rough day to day
it feels many times
like a convalescent home
a pit stop on a highway
the air feels toxic
especially around this time
and no
nothing feels like home
yet
I still dream of my jungles
the winding roads
the clean air that filled my lungs
where do I find my home
where do I find my roots
maybe this longing
is the only place
I’ve ever lived fully
maybe this ache
is my address
