Home Speaks Three Languages

My heart does not speak in one language.

It changes without warning.

One word tastes like childhood, another like the woman I became, another like the life I am still building.

Sometimes I search for a sentence and find three doors.

Behind one, my family is calling me to dinner.

Behind another, I am learning how to survive.

Behind the last, someone I love is saying my name differently, and somehow correctly.

People ask where home is.

I no longer give them one answer.

Home is every language in which I have been loved.