By Aadya Vadrevu
Home is where I feel comfort in your arms,
Where the warm string lights filter beneath my bedroom door,
Where the faint smell of coffee wakes my Sunday mornings.
Home is the subtle fragrance of saffron and turmeric,
Where the scent of smoky cinnamon, wood, and cloves proliferate the air,
Where the sudden “quack” of your shoes signal your forthcoming arrival.
Home is the night you wiped my tears,
The nights you took my ever-flowing pains and made it your own,
The nights you welcomed my troubles like an old friend,
My home isn’t where you call home,
Many seas away, where an old mango tree holds a woven swing, many moons a journey,
Where your mother’s arms patiently wait.
Home is where we go our separate ways,
Where you long to be, after the trials and tribulations of a new land,
Where I explore a new home, a story brimming with thrilling adventure.
Home is where the heart is,
My heart is wherever you call home.