Where I Belong

I don’t belong in any one place.

When asked about my hometown, I leave the field blank,

and I never get that feeling of returning home,

because I am always missing somewhere I previously occupied space.

My favorite places have no order, they have no rank.

All of them are places I am glad to have known,

but somehow none of them are places I have called my own.

I miss the long hot Vermont summers, swimming in the creek down the street.

The dirt road puddle stomping springs,

the purple paint on my bedroom walls,

the rainbow leaves that get stuck in the gutters,

and the way the frogs in the pond sing.

I miss waking up on the morning of the first snow and watching it fall.

I still taste the salty California air,

the fog that sits heavy in the morning,

leaving its quiet shivering touch on my skin.

I see the redwood trees and remember their earthy smell,

the feeling of coarse sand between my toes and in my hair,

and the way the cold of the ocean shocks me when I first jump in,

I still hear the sound of the waves and how they put me under their spell at night as my eyelids fell.

I remember how the mangoes fresh from the tree outside my window in Paraguay tasted.

I remember how maple syrup and sticky sweet sap froze on the Vermont snow before we put it in our mouths.

I remember the stickiness of marshmallows and the taste of smoke in the New York mountains.

When I tell people these things they say that this is what it means to be free

Is freedom not belonging to any place, and having no place belong to me?

Is freedom moving from space to space and having each one feel wrong?

Because in no place will I be able to hear the Pacific Ocean’s roar

And listen to the cicada’s song.

I don’t belong in any one place,

but pieces of me belong to them all

Does that mean I am home anywhere I go?

Or does that mean home is a place I will never truly know?