"Homes and Hogares"

I’ve noticed the words

“Home” and “hogar” 

Mean different things to me,

Despite being mirrors

 In translations and definitions.

“Home,” 

Much like the English it belongs to,

Means a place of emotional safety.

Must be something about the way 

It makes you kiss your own lips.

There are times I’ll lay in bed

With the weight of a tired soul,

A heavy heart upon me,

And brain as constantly puzzled

As it is polluted with marvels,

And I’ll whisper under my breath

“I want to go home.”

Home to hymns my father sang to me 

On sleepless nights.

Home to stories my mom made up

On Sunday mornings 

After sneaking next to her in bed.

Home to giddily eating 

White chocolate squares 

My grandpa kept in his bedside table 

Just for me. 

Home is comfort

Regardless of the language I spoke

Or might speak, ever. 

The label of “Hogar” is harder to attain,

And as expansive as the Spanish dictionary.

I’ve never been too attached to places,

But I’m attached to memories

And the things that bring them up.

An hogar for me can be 

Every sunset because

I’d watch the sunset with my grandpa and sister 

Every day ‘till I was ten.

An hogar for me can be

The sight of a weeping willow

Because the park I loved to go to

Had one you could see even from the highway.

An hogar for me can be

Specific songs my friends made me listen to,

Or their eyes when they smile,

No matter what syntax I use to talk to them,

Or kisses on the shoulder,

Because I somehow developed a habit 

Of kissing my mom’s once our heights reached an awkward gap.

It’s harder for me to ache 

For hogares

When I have so many.

But I can miss specific ones. 

I guess it makes sense I write

Poetry in English then.

My hogares, regardless of where they are

Or who puts them there,

Will be forever in Spanish,

But I tell my homes in English.