I can point out to you the places where the houses my ancestors lived in once stood. I can show you land that once belonged to them, that has been lost for better or worse.
I know the names of my grandparents’ grandparents and the villages they came from.
I can list the countries they travelled to, the places they worked in, far away from their homes, sometimes eking out a living, sometimes doing fairly well.
I might not speak the “native” language very well, but I bleed rust-red and salty, like the mud that supports fruit-bearing trees around my home, trees planted by people whose names have been lost, but whose auras still linger.
I do not currently live there, but what happens to my quasi-village still affects me.
I dream of home, and a better world, and me in it.
Day 82: Write a story for a younger cousin (0-10)