Meaning of Home

I arrive in Pakistan, when we’re at the airport I see families reconnecting with each other, and families hugging each other because they have to let go again. They’re all in traditional clothing, I see people who look like me. On the roads with no streetlights, I hear people yelling, I hear beeping, and people blasting Bollywood music in their car. It doesn’t sound peaceful to other people, but to me it sounds like home. When I opened the windows, I could immediately smell street food shops. Foreigners don’t like the smell, but to me it smells delicious. We’re hungry, we’ve reached home. The day we arrive in Pakistan, we always order Biryani. Biryani is super yummy. It’s also very spicy, but I don’t care. I continue eating even if teardrops fall from my eyes, even if they stream down like a river. In Pakistan, the cats roam freely down the streets. They go around looking for food, or something to drink. My heart aches when I realize they probably don’t even have a home, shelter. Everyone always says street cats are dirty. But it's not a big deal for me. I wash my hands many times every day, but they don’t feel love everyday. I can feel their soft fur, their warm tongues licking my hand. It feels ticklish, but I let it happen. They are adorable, they remind me of home. My meaning of home is Pakistan. The land of my ancestors, my family.