Home is wherever I go.

Home is the ridges of the mountains I see along the country backroads,

reminding me of the ridges along my womanly body,

the curves of my hips as they meet the trails of skin pulled from growth,

permanent tattoos etched into me by Father Time,

my own tiger stripes reminding me of my capacity to roar.

My strong legs carry me along this path back to the roots of my heart.

Home is the feeling of the September wind rustling within the trees,

flirting with my brown curls as I lean over the balcony of my grandmother’s house,

right where my mother used to stand as a little girl,

dreaming of the world that would be hers one day,

and here is her world in me.

She named me after the sea,

and so I continue to flow.

I feel myself in the breeze,

the wisdom of the silence beckoning for change

as it cools the heat of a blazing summer

in a land where I am now a wandering guest.

Yet my blood, red and black,

is a constant reminder that I am forever a part of the flowing river between the canyons,

of the ancient cobblestones leading up to the castle,

the strength of the war in my own heart,

and of the language in-between dialects,

spoken through cheese and bread,

wide smiles and hand gestures,

as I raise my glass for the fourteenth toast of blessings that night.

I can drag myself along to the ends of the earth,

with the weight of familiarity on my back,

searching for the missing pieces to complete me,

but no matter where I go,

there I am.

Everything can change,

yet here I stand.

Home is all of the places within me,

the millions of windows in my eyes as I peer back at those that have made me,

my body a scrapbook of stories that I get to carry.

My love lies within me.

I am always home.