each year, the 4th of july becomes more and more about my independence than this country’s.
i had a houseguest and a barbeque, i played hostess and tour guide, i scheduled outings and naptime. there were moments of hostess anxiety when i worried that something would go wrong, that we wouldn’t have a good time, that i was way in over my head, but everything fell into place.
we had a lovely time. the afternoon ended in a siesta on my front lawn. we laughed and lounged until the sun climbed over the house. then we went back inside.
in two weeks, i will step onto a plane and fly to the philippines, where i was born and only a piece of my heart still lives. i am going to see my grandmother whom i’ve missed dearly. i’ll also spend time with my aunts and uncles and cousins and people who are somehow related to me.
they’ll make fun of my accent. i’ll make fun of their style. we’ll hug, laugh, and talk until it’s time for me to come back home.
this is my home. this, these emotions i feel, these words i write, these clothes i wear. the light blue house with stately white pillars, shiny wood floors, big bright windows. your hand in mine. their laughter around me. my parents’ voice booming on the telephone asking me when i’m coming over, again.
it’s the home i’ve made and it’s the only home i know.