They arrive and fill the house with
familiar voices and sounds
The sense of foreignness dissipates
They are memories of me – incarnate.
my language and gestures
good night kisses and
lingering morning hugs
They bring bags of black beans and cassava flour,
Feijoada, feijão, farofa.
The smells and tastes of home.
I am back from the joys and sadnesses of the Sky Harbor Airport
The runways of arrivals and departures
that mark my life in Arizona.
Their laughter is now gone
And here am I again in my empty house in the desert
That uncomfortable familiar feeling of being out-of-place
The aridness of making sense of who I am
and what part of home is left in this desert
when they go.