I thought you were like a piece of 

gum

that stuck to my shoe, when miles away, I opened my

mouth, and people asked me,

“Where are you from?”

but on the contrary,

you carved me carefully,

dipped me in russet paint, flattened my nose, and

made me as tough as the curls that you put on my head.

You fed me from the most enticing cuisine

and tropical fruits, that

grew under your scorching sun.

You clothed me with colorful, intricately embroidered patterns that

were the product of your hard work.

I remembered the complex beats you played on your

hand-made drum; I snap them even though we’re miles apart.

I memorized the stories you told grandma, and mama, and 

me, because you have to tell my children too.

You showed me the thin line between

the rich and poor, and how to bargain in street markets.

You dwelt on education,

dogmatized religion.

You set down rules—many rules

though now I am here, I forget to follow them.

You taught me manners—hospitality,

said everyone deserved respect.

So during the holidays, I go through thick and thin and

return to your shelf,  beside your other painted carvings with

flattened noses and toughened hair,

to continue in your ways.