Finding Home

What must it be like,  if I stand on the patch of earth,  Right where the end of the rainbow falls? Would my skin be in rainbow colors too? Yes, beautiful, indelible tattoos Would I hear the wind, rain and trees sing? An orchestra of beauty What must a rainbow smell like? A waft of beautiful memories, Friends turning into family If I stick my tongue out, what must a rainbow taste like? Sweet, delicious A burst of  everything deep Profound conversations Like dark chocolate but better My fingers run through the colors, what must it feel like? Soft, gentle Tender, electric Kindness of strangers From faraway lands What must it be like, if I stand on the patch of earth Right where the end of the rainbow falls? Majestic light Colors on skin Singing trees Beautiful memories Friends, family Kindness Love, that is both Tender and Electric What must it be like? All of these.   Photo taken at Brgy. Milagro, Ormoc City, Leyte, Philippines

"I am terrible with goodbyes," I say. We take one last picture. The van drives away. We go back inside.  There are only two breakfast plates left.  The painting of a vibrant red rose greets me. Love, it seemed to say. The guest room is cleaned. A frame sits on the side table. On the wall, the white rose painting hung. Quiet,  it gently said. I am terrible with goodbyes. Time flies so fast. The days are too short. I need more than sixty minutes in an hour. The words flow. Laughter fills every room. Stories are told. Many of them, one after another. Movies. Food. Family. Travel. School. Careers. Passion. Love. Life. Home.  I am terrible with goodbyes. Tyler, our Dutch Shepherd looks at the bags and luggage lined up at the gate, whimpers. Or maybe it is just his ears bothering him. Garret peers into the guest room, eyes questioning.  "Where are they, Mama?' he seemed to ask. I remember the day. I am wrapped in an embrace so tight. I have never been hel

"When one touches the earth, one feels more alive," she says. And then she goes to the kitchen and makes tea. She comes out minutes later carrying a tray. Baby pink roses, various leaves float inside the carafe.  We talk about many things. The mountain air. Corn coffee. Basking in the moonlight in the rocking chair at midnight. Talking to God, the Universe, the angels.  The cold that runs deep to the bones. Family. The intricacies of relationships of a parent to child.  Friends. How we need only few. Only the necessary. The expectations to act in a certain way in a culture where outward appearances are overvalued. And the blatant determination to remain true to oneself. We talked about food. How she loves growing and making it. How we would love to eat it soon. How she does not mind the tediousness of preparation and cooking. Tedious, in fact is not in her vocabulary. But passion is. So is joy. These two are inseparable it seems. We talk about Yolanda. How being s