Most days, I lie upon the lined bamboo floor,

gazing at the kugon roof, so carefully woven,

and the bare bones of the home

we once dared to call ours.

Some days, I linger by the narrow terrace,

eyes fixed on the old chico tree—

it blooms but once each year,

yet I wait, as though its fruit

could bring back all we lost.

When rain arrives, I watch through the gaps in the sahig,

as water slips beneath our silong,

singing its soft hymn of memory—

a melody of downpour and longing,

still echoing in the quiet chambers of my mind.

Papa’s scent still lingers in the air,

Mama’s voice drifts through memory,

calling us home from play.

My sisters’ laughter rings—

half a song, half a tease,

beautiful and bothersome all the same.

And then dawn breaks with truth—

that no matter how we hope,

our feet shall never find their way

back to the place we once called home.