by Alyssa Hudson


I’ve made homes in moldy trailers, in lakeside houses, in beachside condos. I’ve made homes in giant muddle puddles with tadpoles, in the shallows of lakes with minnows, in garden sheds with cats. It’s pressure in my chest, released in laughter, tumbling out as I skip through the slick grass in the rain with my mother. It’s the warmth of fire crackling in the fireplace, lulling me to sleep on the carpet facing the flames. Home is the feel of porcelain in my hand, the smell of the loose tea and herbs and dried fruits packed into a mesh strainer. The flavor seeps into water, mixes with honey and candied ginger, turning the water red-brown. The smell of the ginger rises up to my nose along with a plume of steam out of the smooth white cup, and there it is.


When I talk home…

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