That potatoes can split
like human hair beneath the earth —
that one seedling can divide
its roots into a web of fiber
making a home out of sod. Ohio
is now home, but not-home: grand oaks
tower over us. Peering out the window,
I’m greeted with California, altered:
lushness in place of yellow hills,
and the trees are curious,
inquiring where I come from.
My father unrolls the window and the wetness
is pervasive, blanketing.
In the car, nai nai speaks
about how cows work the hardest
with quiet determination: plowing
soil, making home for life.
We pass barn after barn. “Look
at the four of us,” Nai Nai says
in Cantonese. “We could be the only Chinese
for miles.” Our truck hums along. Beneath and beside us,
the Earth breathes:
///
isn’t it funny
how we make homes
out of places so hungry for constants?
about the author
Emma Wong is a 17-year-old writer based in the Bay Area. Currently a senior at Miramonte High School, she's passionate about the art of storytelling and enjoys investigating the inner workings of poetry. When she isn’t writing, you can find Emma running on the trails with her cross-country team, cooking a meal, or playing with her two cats, Mochi and Olive. Find her @emmabwong on Instagram!
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