Like a sea turtle returns to the shore
where it first touched sand,
I, too, remember home.
Like a whale sings ancient songs
in the waters where its mother once swam,
I, too, remember home.
Like a bear stumbles upon the hollowed-out log
it hibernated in as a cub,
I, too, remember home.
Like a desert bloom waits for a single rainfall
to awaken the memory of color,
I, too, remember home.
Like moss clings to
the north side of trees,
where the shadows feel familiar,
I, too, remember home.
When I cook my favorite meal
in a kitchen that doesn’t yet know my name,
I remember home.
When silence begs to be replaced
with my sister’s favorite songs,
I remember home.
In the impulse to paint the walls a soft, sky blue,
to tape up letters in looping cursive,
to hang pictures of my mother
in a dress she hasn’t worn in years—
I remember home.
In the excitement to hear a Louisiana accent
spilling into a room
like sunlight through the blinds,
I remember home.
In the wish to laugh with a woman
who paints her lips
the same red as I do,
I remember home.