Home

Nostrils flare and pupils widen, 
heads lowered to our respective ceramic cups
we bathe in the steam rising from our lattes.
In unison we exclaim, "Cardamom!" 

We press our lips to glazed rims, 
and take gentle, small, appreciative sips.
The warmth of roasted flavors waft visibly 
on steam clouds rising in the late morning sun.

Taking turns, we share:
our memories of place, of taste, 
of our encounters in the world of spices 
that teleport us back to moments in time.

We slip back into our seats, 
gaining comfort, sharing joy
each of us conjuring sensory ghosts 
that haunt us in the best of ways:
childhood Sunday sticky buns; 
a momentous first pour of Masala chai.

We regain our anchor to this plane
and then she leans in towards me, 
her soft smile flutters with a bittersweet riptide 
foretelling of what Portuguese names "saudade."

I see in her lip muscles' micro-dance 
the waves of nostalgia, of pride and comfort,
that drape over her eyes — a pearlescent glaze, 
as shiny as hand-drizzled apple cinnamon fritters.

"You know, we used to frequent a bakery, years ago,
in a country we were stationed at for work.
So my daughter, when we lived there?
This was long before she could talk, maybe one or two years old.

And in July. 
Our family, we went back to this country.
As we toured our old neighborhood,
I kept looking.
I was searching for signs that she remembered.
We did the trains, the parks, 
but no spark of recognition.

But when we stepped foot in that shoppe, 
and that heady wave of warm yeasted breads 
pulled hot from the oven hit our faces,
it was then she exclaimed:
"I smell it! This is home!"