A Long Way Home

I wasn't born here but yet I am called Canadian. I asked my mom one day. What was Africa like? I wondered if we had a mansion. The memories of my birth home I still can't remember. I traveled far. Farther then I can remember. “You were one,” my mom says. “You was afraid of the snow” she says. As I grew up listening to my siblings talk about home. Talk about missing home. Wanting to go home. Like it was the end of the day at school. Waiting for that ring to tell us that it's time to go home. But home, home is a long way to come. It's still snack time. I sometimes wonder what my sibling’s think their home is? Is it Africa? Is it Winnipeg? Is it Carman? I think I know what my home is. My home is with Hadley. My home is with Ary. My home is my family. No matter where I go or where I am, I feel home when I am with them. So I ask, is home a long way to go? Or is it here with me?