I carry home in my bones,
though miles stretch like oceans.
Hands know the weight of distance,
eyes trace the shape of absence.
I build my life in fragments,
diplomas, canvases, daily routines —
but nights whisper of the tribe I left,
the safety I once breathed.
I am strong, I am steady,
yet small storms rise in quiet rooms,
when care is brief, or far away,
and the heart remembers who is missing.
I am diaspora —
a soul split by maps,
mending with my own hands,
painting love into the spaces between.
©Cheryl Quejada Canning.
