To Home, 

I still don’t know who you are. 

 

To Manila, 

I am the melodies of church bells and carolers 

spreading cheer onto the streets. 

I am the parol 1  that shimmers 

upon every house and glimmers into the eyes of kids. 

I am bibingka  we buy from the same vendor for over 15 years, 

lumpia shanghai, a dish confused with its identity just like me, 

and lugaw with rou song 4  my mom swears can cure any disease.

Classic struggle meals my family ate when they first immigrated, 

the ones I still crave today.   

I am Home Alone movies and 

Hot chocolate nights with siblings, 

sleeping underneath the Christmas tree. 

I am dinners with my family of six 

where stories and laughter linger 

even when the plates are cleared. 

 

To Xiamen,

I am quiet nights 

and times spent looking out my window wondering: 

when I can see my family  again? 

I am my tiny apartment I come home to with empty rooms

in a country I do not know how to call my tahanan 9 

because, yes, while I make look the part,

my heart…

belongs to the pictures I put up on my walls, 

of birthdays, graduation ceremonies, and family dinners  

I wish

I wish

I wish

I would have more of. 

 

To being in between,

I am seat 39A on the 

plane flying from Xiamen to Manila. 

I am from looking out the window, 

mesmerized by the twinkling lights from 

skyscrapers and little townhouses that never seem to sleep. 

I am my passport 

travelling back and forth between two worlds.

It's filled with stamps:

each one representing another goodbye

and proof that home was never just one place.  

 

To my parents who sacrificed everything for me, 

I am the parking lot at

the Ninoy Aquino International Airport at 3am 

Seeing my dad’s arms open for an embrace,

Oh how I longed for it for months 

And how I missed hearing him say the words: 

“Abao dou lai lo” 

(My child is home)