Hothouse

I saw through the midlands of my 
town to the creaking chair where my mother sat, dying while still weaving 
her gold and purple scarves as fast as
ever. 

                                                                      I look down the dusty road to my aunt's 
                                                                         house. It was as far as our mom would 
                                                                            let us roam initially. It is clear as the 
                                                                     ocean’s tears that it is truly a village that 
                                                                                                                      raised me.

I shout across the midway to convey to my 
brothers, kicking up little stand-storms 
playing soccer, that we need to go get 
clean water. The nearest well is four miles 
away. 

                                                                     The clinic that can diagnose cancer only by 
                                                             symptoms, another two miles. The only hospital 
                                                                          to give chemotherapy by IV, another six. 

I know when I look at the bottom of the barrel, it’s 
filled with a little portion of the ocean. I place it 
on my head and walk back as it sloshes above my 
conscience. 

                                                    There is a world across plains and oceans and valleys 
                                                         that is a far cry from this one. And while it may be 
                                                         praised as the greatest nation in the world, it is not 
                                                                                                   home. It is not my home.