Home Is Where Family Is

I’ve always heard stories about immigrants, but I never thought I would be one. Standing in the airport looking eye to eye with complete darkness and white snowflakes my stomach ached a little, is this what I got myself into? I had left my friends, my memories, and my house behind, but my family was there, and home is what family is. The sweet smell of maple syrup, the horrors of middle school, the story of the Inuit, heroes that changed the land, the site of the flag waving high in the sky, and the cheesy taste of poutine. The crimes of the city and the cold winter night, whatever happens, my family is there hugging me and giving me a kiss on the head –and I remember, home is where family is. A cry for help, a burning house, a tear that no one sees. I think and wonder why this happens and what could it possibly mean. I am loved but some are not. I’m seen but some feel invisible. I speak and write but others can’t. I know I am lucky because even when I doubt, my family is there with me. I know they will never ever leave me no matter where they are they are my home and I’ll always know home is where family is.