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.

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