A Forgotten Home

Apr 18, 2017

Read by Zell Miller III

We came to a stop,

the door opened

and a thick air filled the car

and creeped into my lungs.

I cough and sniffle,

dirt covers my face.

as we walk down the streets

of red, orange, blue and green houses,

mix matched tall and short, big and small 

made of twig, cement or bricks.

Fruit stands, carts selling make-up,

tacos and aguas frescas

line the block

and barefooted children run everywhere

asking for food or money.

I can feel the warmth in every step I take

to get to my grandma’s house.

I hear “bien” and “còmo estas,”

a language that almost sounds foreign now

and I realize: I’ve missed this place, my home.