Hannah Federwitz

I used to wonder where my home was.

All the other kids seemed to know,

But mine was always moving, changing, growing.

I could never pinpoint it exactly,

Like the spot in the corner of your eye

That disappears when you look too closely,

But maybe that’s the point.

“Home” can’t be defined.

It isn’t quite a place,

Isn’t quite a feeling,

Although we try to make it such.

It’s everywhere, and nowhere,

Nothing spectacular, and yet everything we need. 

I don’t know what your home is, 

What your home could be,

But I know the parts of mine.

My home is a shared laugh with friends,

A tear, silent in the night.

My home is the whisper of the breeze,

The breath of the girl who fell asleep against me.

My home is the taste of mango on my tongue,

The drumbeats I feel in my feet.

My home is the hymn in the church,

Worshipping the God of us all.

My home is the girl far away,

The stories swapped on a phone call.

My home is the poem found on sticky notes,

The sound of rain on dry ground.

My home is the letter waiting on my desk,

The soul rejoicing over being found.

My home is all this and more,

So go ahead, knock,

I’ll open the door.