So, at what point does one decide to flee
the land where fruit and spice speak Grandma’s tongue?
Where generations of their family
breathe music, art, and song as through shared lung?
This land (their land) where memories are made:
The land that births their children’s love of life,
where laughter laughs, and prayers-in-sync are prayed,
with rooted norms for husband and for wife.
At what point does their home feel foreign-born,
so much so that they have no choice but leave?
How long ‘til all their colors wilt war-torn?
How long until their soul does naught but grieve?
At what point can one let go of what was,
to feel at home in land of unlike flaws?
© Marie Elena Good, 2022