Daughters of
We are the daughters
Of sons of fathers from another land.
We are the daughters of babbas who see in us
the shadows of their mothers
Of papas who see in us
The youth of cousins
Long left somewhere else.
Of babbos who raise us in the margins
Of what we might have been had none of them left,
Or crossed time zones,
Or borders,
Or languages.
We are called honey, mija, bimba, habibti
Our names are translations,
We come subtitled.
Our lives are simultaneous interpretations,
Aquifers of words running away together.
We marry boys who come from outside in,
Sons of daughters of fathers from this land.
Or another.
And together, we make a third
And send messages back and forth
In boats made of
Pasta,
Tortillas,
Hobs
Or
Nothing
But
Words.
And sometimes, you are home.
When you first came in the room,
There was the oddest shock of recognition.
Not from daydreams.
Not from photos sent and studied,
Not from missives back and forth through DM,
But something in just the very way you WERE…
A beautiful, composed stillness, with something coiled beneath it.
When we stood to greet each other, there it was again…
As if to say hello, remember me?
I saw you startle for a moment, as if you felt it too,
Something from before we were ourselves in our present forms.
And when you kissed my cheek and held my hand ever so briefly,
I suddenly knew what it was….
It felt like home….
And I hope you felt it, too.
Welcome home, we have been waiting for you,
It’s nice to have you back…