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

"When will you be back?" she asks. "I'm thinking next month." Ay, this constant leaving and returning. My chest tightens. She is more quiet now than I remember. I exhale deeply. "When will you be back?" she asks again, her memory more fickle this time. "March, Mom." "Okay, anak." I hail a cab. Rain pours. Traffic ensues. The lights change. Cab driver steps on the accelerator.  The city roars to life.  My trip is still three hours away. Plenty of time, I think. Cab driver steers to the fast lane. "Ang takna alas siete baynte sa kabuntagon," Voice from the radio barks. "I have plenty of time," I say again to myself. I look at my watch, catch myself holding my breath as thoughts drift to our home where my mother, more quiet than before, who asks me twice, when I will be back,  waits for March.

Left foot, right foot, breathe. I am not who I was last year. Breathe. Walk, walk, walk Blue bird swoops down and up A boy not older than 9 maybe, throws a ball on the wall His reflexes are better than mine Breathe. Wind blows.  My skin tingles "The rich can afford to 'find themselves'," She said to me. It stays in my memory. I am not rich. Yet I need to find myself. Walk, walk, walk. Look up. The sky has cirrus clouds. Sun to my right preparing to set But not yet. Birds fly all over. Breathe. Who am I? Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Why am I alive? Walk. Walk. Walk. "Thank you for believing in me," an 11th grader said to me. My heart breaks. Last week, I cried. Because the pain was more real than the joys I ever felt. And why is that? Breathe. I am not who I was last month. or last week, or yesterday. Left foot, right foot, breathe. Where am I going? Walk. Walk. Walk. Do not stop moving. The boy is still bouncing the

A memory-- Your hand holding a pen sketching My face then beside it Words in Spanish I remember now "Dulce", the word, Dulce Then "Corazon" I remember now "Mi Dulce Corazon" was what you wrote. Only now, "No hay dulce" There is only my heart, "Solo mi corazon" Or what's left of it. 

Freedom Fortune Love Life Daughter Sister Friend Counselor Teacher Wife Mother  Traveler Seeker Lost  Found Lost again Found over and over Joy Pain Everything in between Beautiful always Laughter Not laughter Anger Peace Silence Song Thoughts to ponder on A hand to hold  even from miles away Gratitude Courage Grace Helene.