When I see your pale face and black hair I ask myself if you could be Hispanic. In fact, I think of my childhood doctor Dr.Bengochea.
I see a woman’s printed pants: black, white, and blue, and it reminds me of the tiles in Sevilla, Spain.
It makes me yearn for home and I wonder why I’m not home. But then I remember I don’t belong there. I don’t belong here either.
I’m in between and never really comfortable anywhere .
I thought of the essay “Elsewhere”, by Kundera. I thought about self-exiles and displacement: it isn’t very much a tragedy, so much as an acceptance that nowhere will ever be just right.
Some people are born with their homes on their back