I miss my home, my family. I miss where I’m from. Sitting on my grandmother’s front porch and watching people pass by to run their errands but they still take the time to yell out a hello or good afternoon, hearing the the sound of the horse drawn carriages and wagons as they approach, seeing people carousel a bike to get from point A to point B. I miss the breeze that hits your face when you sit in the shade of a tree. You can sit anywhere and people will always make it a point to at least give you a nod of the head. People in my town are known as the ‘Come Mangos’ translation ‘Mango Eaters’. Mango trees line the streets and there are fields where mangoes grow as far as the eye could see. I have very fond childhood memories of climbing those trees and swinging from branch to branch in conquest of the biggest juiciest mango I could find.
I miss where I’m from. I miss the cobblestone streets, the colonial church in the centre of town. You can see the volcanoe so clear from the street of the millionaires. Sometimes it decides to hide behind clouds but its majestic base is still there, like a reminder to all of the sleeping giant that may awaken at any given moment. No matter how long you’re away from your birthplace, how long its been since all your senses have been awaken by all the sounds and smells from that little piece of heaven, it will always be Home. You will always have the sense of belonging and familiarity. I miss it so much it hurts sometimes. It’s one of the most beautiful places on Earth, it’s my Home.