back home,
my mother makes one less roti
but cries a few extra tears
as she finds it troubling
to have one less soul in the house now
but then she recalls
a good-bye at the airport,
and a promise to come back every year
the fresh loss
of a presence, and a laugh,
and somewhere in between
she gives birth
to grief
here,
I long for home
as I make my own chai
which i know won’t be as perfect as yours
and name my grief
“mother”
and as the kids go home on break
and I lay on my chest
longing for mine,
I remind myself
what a privilege it is
to have a home to long for