Seattle, WA
Poet, blogger, lawyer, educator, sista, sister, aunt, daughter, mentor, friend, dog owner, lover of music and all things gluten free... Writing about all of this and more.

Sunday, January 31, 2010

Where My Heart Is

I've got this great book on memoir that my dear friend JC got me for my birthday (thanks, Jace!). One section asks the reader/writer: Where is home? The trick is, just write for 10 minutes or so and see what happens. Here's what I got:

Home is...

...a split level house in the South End of Seattle. It's that house on Christmas in 1988, filled with the scents of homemade food. My big brother is home from college. I'm seven, toothless, smiling, wearing ruffles, warm, watching my handsome uncles tease my lovely, elegant aunties. I'm listening to my mom's laughter travel from the kitchen to every other room in the house. I see my dad standing like a redwood. I hold my Gram's hand, comb my Mother Dear's hair.

Home is a two bedroom home in Holly Park, a public housing section of Seattle where my grandma Mother Dear cooked the best stew and grew the best greens and filled crossword puzzles, stitched quilts, collected bric a brac, watched Mr. Ed, made me eat a teaspoon of honey and lemon and a sprig of spearmint when I was sick. It's her big hands, her soft hair, her gentle laugh, her warm hug, her sweetness.

Home is a two story brick house where my grandma Gram welcomed everyone, young and old, to make themselves comfortable and at home. I have a room there in my pre-adolescent years and it's there where i feel safest to be curious, different, creative. My imagination flourishes there, under the shade of her crab apple tree and behind the old shed that leaned into itself, even in the dirt of her rickety red, falling-down hot house, or in the ocean deep puddles under the pear tree after the rain, in the wormy worlds of the flower bed.

Home is mom's apple tarts. Gram's peach cobbler. Mother Dear's cornbread. Dad's cinnamon lattes. I can replicate them just close enough to be reminded that I miss them.

Home is, funny enough, wherever I am writing--just me and my thoughts, maybe a sputtering espresso machine behind me, setting the tempo to the slide of ink over paper or the click-clack of computer key. It's wherever I am that allows me to look back and smile, to look forward and know that it'll be alright.

For anyone who feels so inclined, Where is home for you? I'd like to know!

6 comments:

  1. Nice post Kia. You are such a good writer. I'm not making any promises but I might take you up on the challenge;)

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  2. Aw, thanks! And do, my Glorious friend! How are you and when are you coming back to the States? I guess I need to take my butt to Ghana, huh?

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  3. Hey Kiki, I'm good. I can't say for sure but hopefully before the summer. It'd be awesome if you could come to Ghana.

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  4. Yo this was dope, joe. i can see your grandmother's hands and greens growing as i read. the whole thing is really quite visual.

    as i read it i was struck with the sad reality that i don't really feel home anywhere. but i do feel like everything will be just fine every time i'm in philly, no matter whats happening externally. that may be the closest i have to home. one day i hope to have one...

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  5. GLO, girl, you ain't said nothing but a word. I need to get my stuff together and get my butt to Ghana. If I come, you must greet me at the airport with "Akwabaa!" (sp?)

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  6. Hey Matt, thanks for commenting brother! Yeah, I can see Philly. I can SO see Philly as home for you. I also find it interesting you say you don't really feel at home anywhere, because you seem to be at home in your own skin. Hmmm, ponder, ponder.

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