Black Cardamom

Home is the smell of ground black cardamom bubbling in the silver moon-shaped pot on the stove.

It’s filled with pounds of fresh homemade butter and

A long chestnut brown ladle sticks out.

It’s the gentle lines on my mother’s hands stretching

And shortening,

As she runs her index and middle finger

Of each hand

Through my hair.

Grabbing quarter inches of my black wool and weaving them tightly onto my scalp.

Home is my father using his camera to capture tangerine-tinged lilies in the front yard

So his daughter can see beauty every morning before she leaves to run her front yard of a noisy industrial city that has no spots of nature or lilies to count.

Home is a dream of a place and a person or a taste.

It’s the memory of joy and ease.

It’s the smell of an airport that is flooded with people who look like you.

It’s the cool marble floors at night and guard dogs running the backyard

While the stars sparkle bright and large

As you watch your favorite syndicated show through satellite

at your favorite cousin’s house perched on a small hill, just south of the city.

Home is red dirt and high altitude.

Deep measured breaths and the sweet smell of roasting coffee beans.

A gentle hug plus

Three kisses

ends in soft laughter.

Thirteen hour flights

Thirty minute drives

Three and a half hour train rides

Walking up the driveway to embrace.