Fit in the Suitcase

“Home”. We all have different definitions of it, different things that come to mind when it is mentioned, whether it is the scent of hearty soup, enveloping your senses and filling your heart, the mellow taste of fresh, hot chocolate with whipped cream, the feeling of a blanket weighing on your body, warm, soundlessly lulling you to sleep, or the simple comfort of conversation – of people. To me, home is the sea. It is the place where cool, Pacific winds blow in the midst of a humid day, carrying away the sand and dust and the laughter and sadness of the people it passes by. I lived in the city, far, far away from the sea. I did not visit often either. When I leave the privacy of my home, I am greeted by the sound of revving engines and my aunt nodding at me in acknowledgement as she busies herself with menial, everyday tasks. I am overwhelmed by the rush of children’s footsteps, thumping as they make their way to school. Perhaps others would find it strange, me finding the sea home despite seldom visiting. I would not blame them. Home, however, is not always a place. Home to me is also the unique smell of books, the light smudges of graphite on my battered, raw fingers, the pungent scent of acrylic paint permeating from my canvas, and the faded smear of ink on the side of my hand, imprinting on the paper. It is a sensation, an experience that I can carry with me as I go. Today, I stand in a different place. It is one that is armed with biting, cold air during winter and scorching, dry heat during the summer. There are things that I find similar to my home here, though. They leave me with a sense of nostalgia, one that I feel at the very tips of my fingers and up to my steadily beating heart. Yet even the most striking of similarities seem unexpectedly foreign – different. I suppose it is that way when you leave home in search of a new one, promised with a better source of education and new opportunities. I sacrificed my home for my future, and I doubt I am the only one. More than 17 million immigrants have arrived and settled in Canada. My family spent nearly 5 years getting our small group of four in Canada, and it cost them a fortune. We are not financially well off. We are middle class citizens forced to coop up in an average sized apartment unit, but strangely, I’m okay. I am here, and I am grateful I am here. I am not home, but I will carry my memory of it, just like carrying an important memento, fit snugly in your suitcase.