Home

Home
It is difficult to love
a place your parents don’t love.
Home is
a place my mother
only came reluctantly to,
and stays only because of us.
It makes me feel
abandoned
guilty
when she says she’s moving
as soon as she possibly can,
when we are away at college.
But she laughs at this,
at her own joke.
It isn’t funny.
I try not to believe it is true.
Her home is far, far away,
across a vast sea.


Home is
a place my father
is tired of.
He wanted to live in Manhattan,
but we moved to a place
slow
like a sloth.
When we pass
the many, many realty stores
that reek new and change,
he looks at the houses
with interest.
When I went to a friend’s house,
he picked me up
and Was the neighborhood nice?
Sure, I shrugged and added,
Why does it matter?
I am tired of this place,
he answered,
and a sigh like fatigue.


It is difficult to love
a place your parents don’t love.
“Home is where the heart is”,
they say.
But where is home
when I don’t know
where my heart belongs?

Cecilia Emy
Age 13, Grade 8
Berkeley Carroll School
Gold Key

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