Home should taste sweet, but unfortunately that is not always the case.  Some homes are filled with the bitterness of tears shed.  Others are filled with the curses put into words.  Sill others are never, will never, have never been…

Home?  What is that to a beggar on a street corner?

I am learning that home might be that bit of cement on the median at the intersection between two streets, that space that separates the motorcycles going from the cars coming.  That space in the road that barely seems possible to hold a person in safety during daylight as you cross but that somehow transforms into a nursery: a baby blanket laid out as though in a bassinnett, with toys lovingly set up, baby bottle sitting upright in the sun, now laying on its side as daylight turns to dust…

Baby sits, arms outstretched for a loving embrace, but mom is busy attempting to collect a cupful of coins and bills, so babies outstretched arms hold each other as the bicycles, motorcycles, cars, vans, cojeks, taxis, chaos continues all around.

God, my God, protect them.  They are only children.

The taste of home: bitter tears wept by strangers from distant lands that can’t seem to put food to mouth after that sight.  How to eat the sweet delicacies on my table when all around I see what true hunger looks like.  Bitter  taste in my mouth.  Agrio, sin entendimiento.  Food that is spicy, filled with tasty delights and sweet treats, bitter.  Bitter now.  How do I eat?

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