Home

When my 12th grade English teacher asked me what home was

I wrote that home smells like zucchini muffins and sangria

And sounds like an acoustic guitar

And feels like my lover’s arms around me.

I have never been “home”.

I leave trails of my heart from Michigan

Indiana
Illinois

Wisconsin.

My bleeding heart reaching out

Touching the people I meet in each one.

None of these are home.

I was in seventh grade when I left Michigan for the first time.
I went down to Ohio with my friends
And we rode everything we could in Cedar Point.

I was not thrilled by the height or the drops

I looked over Lake Erie from the very top of the power drop
And my heart said “here”.

For three years, my heart yearned for Ohio.

My brother described it as
“Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, Cedar Point, and corn fields”

And I wondered how anyone could take a place and sum it up with only that.

I have never been “home”.

I felt home sick though.

I always felt out of place.

No matter where I went, I never felt like I belonged.

When I was fifteen, my cousin and I planned to move to Cincinnati when I finished high school.

We would spend hours in Home Depot and Art Van looking for the perfect furniture for our dream.

There were times when it all seemed like a far off dream

Like George would tell Lennie to keep their spirits high

(That’s what I was told in 10th grade English)

I am sixteen now.

I still haven’t been “home”.

But home still smells like zucchini muffins and sangria

Sounds like acoustic guitar
And feels like my lover’s arms.

I am moving to Cincinnati in a little less than a year.

My girlfriend is joining me in a year.
My cousin has mastered zucchini muffins

I’m learning guitar
And I still love sangria.