When my mom first moved to this town,

She was chasing freedom from a series of highs and lows.

She moved to a small house that smells of fresh limes, and safety.
We find comfort in each other, and their hugs are like warm blankets,
Protecting me from the dangers of what is unknown.
This has become my home.

My home is defined by the train whooshing by at night,
Mixed with the soothing sound of a million typing fingers,
Flowing through through the cracks of our thin walls.

You walk outside and you’re met with both friendly and unfriendly neighbors,
All searching for the same sound succor of home,
But we love them all.
This is our home.

If you keep walking, you see the infamous tracks,
Dividing our town’s people only by some pieces of wood and metal.
This divide is like a false protection,
Making us feel like we are different from the others,
but we are all the same.
This is our home.

Whether it be because of my safe haven of a house,
Or the wonders of the familiar concrete streets,
I will soon chase my own freedom as my mother once did,
When she came here,
To the never ending cycle of newfound dreams and moving on.