Two Way Mirror of Home

My home is like a two-way mirror,
a single-sided reflection on each side
On days when my sickness for my home takes over me,
I don’t know which side I belong to
I wonder: is it this side of home I belong to, or the other?
How can it be that I am homesick for a place that may be foreign to me?
Despite everything about me being visible on each side of the mirror 
the sides that don’t quite fit right,
the sides that don’t sound right,
quick or sharp enough at the tip of my tongue,
the sides that I may have to grind down fine
or hide to fit in on this side of home.

My home is like a two-way mirror,
a distant memory that may be too far away to reach
but is a part of me although I may forget that it exists
Memories of my home tell me that it hurts to be here
It hurts to belong – and home should never hurt
But if you’re reminded each day that you do not belong,
you may be in the right place at the wrong time,
and the pain it brings to your heart may even transcend a lifetime.

When day comes, things will cease to hurt anymore
I will slick my hair back in my grandmother’s shea nut oil
while the sun’s rays melt the oil down my scalp,
down the grooves of my neck to the slopes of my back
Aunty would part my hair to braid it, the gentle hands that raised me
securing each strand of my hair and every inch of my being that was once astray
Lost in a labyrinth of false hopes and ambitions,
bottled up in a glass house, I will come back to me –
back to the home of my body,
the home I have fought to evict myself from to save myself from the pain within
The tears of my soul will form an endless stream
that will one day reach God
And God will tell me that only I can drink from the cup of my own misery,
and only I can turn my tears into seeds and nourish the soil of my body.

My home is like a two-way mirror
where the tea doesn’t taste like twigs dancing in bland water
but of love and inner peace.
My aunty would wake before the fat rooster’s alarm,
the kettle would whistle on wood log flames,
we would all sit beneath the canopy of the hut my uncle built,
drink tea that’s too sweet to be tea,
creating memories of home that will last a lifetime,
no matter which side of home we may belong to.