Home away from home

I’m at home when the echoing chatter 

floating through the café that I’m 

reading in blends into indecipherable 

words and phrases that make beautiful 

background music, not noise 

I’m at home when I can read the 

emotions that exist within the 

conversations of passersby without 

knowing what they’re saying 

I’m at home when my pale winter skin 

labels me a foreigner as it contrasts the 

eternal tan of those who live in a 

country kissed by the sun and the 

shopkeeper smiles at me when I thank 

him with a collection of syllables that 

belong to him and not me 

I’m at home when I’m waiting for the 

metro and a couple approaches me 

asking for directions and I have to 

explain both the barrier that exists 

between us and the directions with 

hand motions and short English and a 

smile spreads across my face at the 

thought of them approaching me because 

I appeared as though I belonged 

I’m at home when I’m walking down the 

street and I can’t understand the lyrics 

of the song on the radio that drifts 

through the open window of the car 

next to me stopped at the red light but 

it’s upbeat and happy and makes me 

smile to myself as I continue on my way 

I’m at home when I have to rely on making 

sense of the flashing images of the news channel 

on the TV that hangs on the wall behind the 

bar at happy hour instead of the voice 

of the man reporting what’s happening 

I’m at home when I have to find my way 

using street signs that contain words 

and names I couldn’t begin to pronounce 

I’m at home when all that I exchange 

with someone is a smile, because the 

exposure of teeth is simple and universal 

and the best way to talk to strangers 

I’m at home when I’m not at home

About the Author

Caroline Burgoyne is Psychology and English double major at Arcadia University that enjoys traveling, reading, and writing. Lover of cats, coffee, and warm sweaters. Collects classic novels and beautiful notebooks.