Home Is

Home is Bohol, my lolo and lola, executed by the imperialists, their blood infused into the Chocolate Hills.

Home is Manila, tatay and mommy, eight eager years, welcomed their first son, baptizing me their Great Expectation.

Home is Brooklyn, toy airplane in my hand soared to faraway lands until I slipped and it blinded my left eye for good.

Home is Quezon City, my pet goat, untethered from its post, mistaken by neighbors as one of their own and turned into kaldereta.

Home is Antipolo, our new home in a mango orchard high up on a hill, in the bull’s eye of typhoon Yoling, wrecked beyond recognition, my parents rebuilt with three times the concrete.

Home is Kathmandu, a Danish girl and Aussie boy at British Primary School, the first beads in a necklace of unrequited love.

Home is Bangkok, banana leaf krathong, offerings of marigold, incense and baht coins, released into the neighborhood klong to honor the water spirits, to bring mysticism into my conscience.

Home is Tokyo, a gawky high schooler overachieved to hide his sexuality, to be the boy wonder, groomed for greatness.

Home is Ann Arbor, broke away from tatay’s wish that I return to his homeland. His bitter disappointment etched on the contours of father and son.

Home is Cleveland, my first job, retail, the only employer who would hire a foreign student. I made friends that would not last a lifetime.

Home is Staten Island, followed him to where he had a family, to be with me every other day, much to the bemusement of my Albanian landlord.

Home is London, the expat assignment enabled my escape, to start anew, in the vaguely familiar, leading me to believe I had been here in a former life.

Home is Greenwich Village, burnt out I found solace in a loved one, a partner, together we were corporate refugees in search of our next chapter.

Home is New Hope, after nineteen years together, I took possession of the house, the cat still walks in figure-eights around my ankles, not giving a damn should I choose to move on.