Hiraeth

Home has always been transient, moving.
I've left snippets of it in car rides
Spent fighting over the right CD,
Over maps and locations 
And words and their meanings 
For us.
Perhaps home had planned for us to disagree all along.
Home is scattered across a crosshatching of mountain roads,
Swirling and whirling amidst the long-forgotten laughter
That still bubbles over unknown paths. 
Home has always been mobile, barely tangible.
It rides alongside a metallic blue cycle
Wobbling with imbalance and uncertainty
On a warm winter day.
It's tangled within the length of your hair,
Your long, lustrous hair;
Waiting to be smoothened into memory.
Home blossoms bright, bright yellow
Within a flower bed, now left untended. 
We've dug around home, in search of seashells, fossils,
In search of long-forgotten relics
Of memories we cannot revisit.
Home's a melodic cacophony
Of creaking black gates, paws padding across a terrace,
And a carefree tune hummed gracelessly. 
Home has always been more human than merely physical. 
It once took residence in a kitchen warmly glowing
With the scent of fresh chapattis and heated conversations.
It would pop unexpectedly in poorly lit restaurants
Buzzing with a thousand stories 
Waiting to be narrated
After a simple, 'How was your day?'
Home's scattered, home has moved around quite a lot,
But home comes back every Sunday 
To grin foolishly at the scratchy video quality 
Of a lifetime full of love.