Home is the recipe of your sweet milky tea
In the way you call me ‘daughter’
in 3rd person
to fit the jigsaws of my 1st person
piece by piece
Home is in a forgotten prayer coming true, the plea for
a sister of my own.
It is in your wisdom and sage advice,
and over three decades of
Home is in your eccentric sense of humour which
provokes glares and taunts:
‘Daughters shouldn’t laugh so much.’
It is in your defiant out pours of laughter.
The house is alive.
Home is the crazy flash of temper in
your doe eyes, the lashing whips of your hair.
It is in your witty oneliners; in
Pride knowing Khala loves you the most
no matter what.
Home is the melody of your toddler-speak.
In the way your nose wrinkles when you smile.
It is in your gimme-big-hug,
and your one-at-a-time kisses.
In the way you scream Yaya and I never want it corrected.