Bloom

I sit here and watch you play, my dear brother, my dear husband. I wish we understood before leaving that home is where the heart is and we could have stayed where we were born, where we played Mar Y Tierra, hopscotch and soccer. Your jaws dropped when I announced I wanted to play. You were even more surprised when I won—many times. I beamed when I felt the terracotta-coloured earth beneath my feet alongside my brother and future sweetheart kicking the old, sun-burnt soccer ball with its peeling fibres.

If I say "home is where the heart is," one of you would reply:
“We were happy there but we are also happy here.”

The other would reply:
“Bloom where you are planted. Look what grows, mi hermana. Children, trees, chicks become chickens and the vines that give birth to grapes that become a drink that warms our heart and we shout: Salud!”

I know I would lose the argument. I know that instead of saying all this, I will prepare the other plates of pasta, slice the bread and make butterfly pasta necklaces with the children.

I wish I can tell you I miss home. I wish you could see that. Maybe you can. You are my brother and you are my husband. Two men who have always been by my side on land and in water.

Of course, you know. Perhaps that is why you are playing vibrato on grandpa’s guitar, pushing and pulling your purple music box the way your own father did—while watching me watch you. We are having a silent conversation and music is our voice.

I will not see place any more. I will see love. The love which binds us, love that binds us all.

How about a game of soccer, muchachos?