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.