Home

Home is my brother’s arms, the lines by daddy’s laughing eyes, mama’s hand on my head. Here.
Home is dust from the flour and words to an old Newsboys song. Chum’s guitar and cracking voice, filled with more soul than melody as I work magic with turmeric.
Home is a row of bushes bearing blueberries not yet ripe. I taste one all the same.
Home is the grass. Green and yellow and gold and green again. Veiling the spectrum of earth. Red. Orange. Brown. I have loved them all.
And have yet to.
Home is where you call me.
Where?