and i still seek home…

I’ve never gone too far
home
past my Lola’s house
and my Lolo’s grave.

I’ve never seen that blue,
the one of the Philippine Sea,
and I’ve never even
swam with my cousins
(who are competitive swimmers).
But I’ve seen my Lolo’s poem,
his vows to my Lola,
hung on my aunt’s wall,
and I’ve faithfully listened to all the old stories.
Even though the memories don’t fit,
I have an old lunchbox
where I keep a pen
with my Lolo’s favorite Bible verse,

and a flashlight he once gave me.
Maybe I’ll print out a poem of his
to place in there
as well.
And I’m more than just one story,
one distant set of islands,
one lunchbox holding
my remaining grief.
Sometimes the memories
shrink
to a single raindrop
as I remember long past days.
I swear
I try to catch every drop
in a glass,
so maybe one day
I can drink it
and see my scattered life
come together
for a moment.

Lessons (Rebellions)

My mom once told me not to wear cropped shirts,
as we passed some girls on a street.
I giggled and nodded then,
my hand reaching upwards to hers.

Now i feel the chill
as i walk my dog, midriff exposed.
the wind never warned me
that its bite would make my stomach blue too.
My hands dance downwards with the leash, looping
and loosening the gap
between the sidewalk and the rope.
They too, turned blue
with the cold and with the echoes
in my bones, of days on jungle gyms
the light dipping beneath my head as I climbed
trying to catch the last drops of sun.
But now i have goosebumps on my stomach
and my hands are curled in shivers

because i didn’t keep my mother’s promise.
(It was only hers, after all)