We were two weeks away from home
And you had already done your tourist homework.
You bought a book from the store at the metro station
With archeological pictures of the city
Narrating about its history and galore.
You read out facts over dinner
Like a child reading the manual
Of the new toy there were handed.
You had the noodles twirled to a mouthful
Suspended ten inches above the plate
In between the book and,
The gateway to your rumbling stomach.
I can’t help but laugh and adore
Your investment into this little trip back home.
So I ask you to put the book aside
And start telling you stories
Of the older parts of the city where I grew
And the newer parts that were in the news now.
I told you about how the rains came second
And the smell of damp grass first;
How everyone had a tale and opinion
About politics, weather, romance, patriotism
And almost anything under the sun and not.
I told you to how the city could be loud,
Sometimes too loud and sometimes just enough.
I told you about how the roads were enjoyed
With your windows rolled down and the ac switched off.
I told you how it embraced you regardless of whether
You belonged there or not.
I told you how the city was the light and dark,
A lot of times depending on which turn you took.
But mostly, there were little big things in the city
That could made it home
Bringing strangers and family to the lawn
In the name of a vacation.
Afterall, in two weeks
I was taking home, home.