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.

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