By: Yasmeen Yahya
My mother searches for home in her collections
and hand-woven blankets older than the love between my grandparents.
She searches for her home thinking
It has to be around here somewhere.
She searches for home in between the pages of the bibles she collects
Searching for a miracle.
She searches for home in things she keeps
Hoping that home is right within her reach.
My father searches for home in his smartphone
In the palm of his hand he can find remnants of home
And people he knew and people he knows
And what they looked like and who married whom
And see parties with his brothers sisters cousins and his mother
Who’s getting older as he gets older as I get older
He searches for home when he calls me into his office
to look at the faces of people I’ve never met in a place I’ve never been.
My parents search for a home in me.
I am the manifestation of my parents’ hopes and wildest American dreams
Held up by the mountains my parents have climbed
Flying with the wings made of perseverance and hope that they built for me
Riding on the highway they have paved for me to get to wherever I want to go
I am their home. But something is missing.