Only In My Dreams

Immigrant, outsider, outlander.

Three different words, but all of them define me…

Who am I?— What am I?

Where do I belong? —

Where do I feel at home?

Home—

A word so simple but so strong

it carries a deep meaning,

it can trigger the purest emotions…

good, bad, everything in between.

It’s been ten years since I left my country,

ten years since I’ve seen the land that saw me grow.

Ten years, a decade.—

Either way you call it, it’s a long time.

Time I needed to figure out what ‘home’ means to me…

Where home is—

for me.

Home is where the yellow

of the Araguaney tree is seen

in every corner,

every mountain,

every creek.

Home is where the blueness

of the Caribbean embraces you

as you softly dive in its waters.

Home is where the red siskin sings

as it gives life to the forest

whilst flickering its bright-red feathered wings.

Home is a land faraway,

where El Avila’s silhouette

and the tower of the Humboldt Hotel,

mesmerize you from the distance

every second of the day.

Home is my family getting together

every first of December

to make hallacas, listen to Venezuelan gaitas

and spend the day dancing, singing, laughing...

Home is driving to my grandmother’s house

every Sunday afternoon,

seeing my uncle and my dad

being in charge of the barbecue

as me and all my cousins run around

playing tag or hide and seek

with the occasional shout from my mom saying

“be careful, please!”

Home is a place I cannot go back,

at least not now or in the next few years.—

Home is the family that is spread around

through a myriad of countries and three different continents.—

Home to me is

as it saddens me to say ,

a place that now exists only in my dreams.