This Place: CPF to AMFT

This Place

This place has become my refuge.
      Here I can be invisible,
      lost in thought,
      dreaming of a homeland
            far, far away,
      or of one right next door.

My Dreamer, My Mims
© Ana M. Fores Tamayo

This place has become a translation
      of many worlds;
      a reconstruction of notably,
           no, vastly
        different cultures, languages, and people,
           into one whole,
                     one home.

It is a house full of color
      that shouts and
           soothes at the same time;
A space full of sounds:
      voices floating between languages,
           wind chimes you so love
           chattering in the breeze;
A melting pot of smells:
      freshly mowed lawns,
      your delicious, eclectic meals,
      tempting our ravenous mouths;But most of all, a book of memories,
      compiled from the various places
to which we are invariably tied:
      Spain, Cuba, Venezuela, the United States, Mexico, and finally
                                      Texas, a place all of its own.
      
       Over the years, as these memories have grown,
This place
      has transformed from a house
            into a home.

       

This poem is for you, Mom. Despite my seemingly constant complaints and excuses to get out of the house these past few years, now I can’t seem to stop thinking about home. Even though I thought you were crazy for wanting to paint our foyer gold, I now can’t imagine it any other way; it lights up the whole room. 

Our foyer, with its masks on gold
© Ana M. Fores Tamayo

Although I’m sometimes embarrassed that my friends point out the eclectic or even eccentric style of decoration, the crazy masks from all over the world and somewhat random assortment of art (paintings, sculptures, ceramics, etc.) have become familiar to me. 

If those were taken away, a part of me would go with them. 

It’s not just the material things that have made it a home, though. Your sometimes wacky, “I don’t need a recipe” style of cooking tastes like home. Its aroma filling the air as I come down the stairs smells like home. Its general lack of presentation and consideration of aesthetics looks like home. Our family gathered around the kitchen table, saying our grandparents’ prayer in Spanish and then switching back and forth between languages in conversation sounds like home. Everything about our house feels like home, and that’s mostly because of you. So thank you Mom, for insisting that we not treat our home like a hotel, and for truly making it a place of comfort, of family, and of love.

       Love you like pencils love poets,

Camila