Home. In Portuguese, minha casa. A word that more closely translates to “my house”, but my house is not where nor what home is. It’s a funny concept, “home”, one that causes moments to wash over me.

Home is safety. Home is the space encased by the chipped walls always needing to be repainted and the somewhat empty rooms, never fully bare, but never truly finished. Home is the familiar faces, passing me by, sometimes with a greeting.

Home is family. Home is the echoed laughter of my loved ones, loud but lively. Home is the shock that hits me when I watch my cousins faces slowly morph into a distorted reflection of their parents every time I visit. Home is the guilty empty promises, that I’ll return sooner, but I never do.

Home is comfort. Home is the sweet summer breeze brushing through my hair. Home is the morning walks to the padaria for fresh baked goods and the best açai one can find. Home is the long drives to the park, with the static music playing over the old car radio.

Home is like a big warm hug awaiting me with open arms, calling out to me, awaiting my eventual returns.

Home is safety. 

Home is family. 

Home is comfort. 

-but home is far.