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 pin it exactly, Like the spot in the corner of your eye That disappears when you look 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.
Hannah Federwitz is a American who grew up in Ghana and moved to Ethiopia when she was 16. She then moved to the U.S. for college, and still struggles to find a place that feels like “home.” Her poetry is what grounds her, helping her realize home isn’t a place, it’s the people that make her feel safe.
Find her on Instagram at @piecesofabrokengirl
