Between Two Homes

The flight is long and dull and colorless,
seven hours back from

Tokyo to Singapore. Out the window, 
there sits Mount Fuji 

expanding across the land, 
snow spreading like tiny veins.

In a few hours, I will be in Changi,
in the sweltering summer of Singapore.

I left behind my winter clothes,
my subway tickets and Japanese yen

but in the back of my mind, lingering,
is a question I’ve left unanswered for years–

If I lived in one place but spent my whole life in another,
then where would I call my home? 

When I was young and eight, 
the mosquitos and lizards encroaching my apartment,

the rubbery tennis courts at Turf City,
the smell of chlorine lingering in my hair

was what defined home,
the place I belonged without question.

When I was fourteen, three halves that age,
the woody scent of my Tokyo apartment,

the harsh winds of the cold months,
the fresh fish from Tsukiji market

was what I called home,
a city both my parents were from. 

But now, sixteen and drifting, 
as I stare out the cabin glass, 

at the shimmering lights of Singapore,
the dim glow of the oil tanks and boats,

I am reminded of the
illuminations I loved from Rainbow Bridge,

the crowded Shibuya crossing I passed every day,
my friends and grandmothers’ neighborhoods,

the mountains and snow I saw
from up above the sky a few hours prior. 

In this brief moment, 
there is no distinct line between

Singapore and Tokyo.
Maybe, like those icy veins 

stretching across the country,
I, too, can spread my arms

across the many places
I call home.