Growing up was not in the spoken word of the country of origin,
parental choice was the language of the country of birth,
lost were the years when learned idiomatic expressions would
                                       now be automatic,
as growing would have it,
one language was enough,
and was lavished,
while the parents,
moved and moved,
to a hockey town,
with a mountain named,
after the color of blood,
and another mountain,
like Granite.

All that has been lost,
drags behind, pulling
toward home,
tongues and time,
both lost on this life,
cities and memories
out of reach, the pity.

travelling home alone,
with only strangers to
greet you,
treating you,
like a visitor,
who knows better,
once you say your
last name,
flames of memory
lit and rekindled,
the smile
either stays
or vanishes
as they embrace
or banish,
who your Ancestors
were to them,
lost on the city history,
tongue spoken a foreign exchange,
eyes down cast
never focussing,
like you did locusts bring
and they carried a little of
the past, each one a story
with as many exaggerated,
laughs as honest chuckles,
and your will buckles and
you admit, *this place is my home