I was twelve years old when I left home.

In my native land, I slept on grass huts on bamboo floor

covered by banig, a grass mat, with twenty others. That was home.

Nanny cousins put me and my siblings to sleep, then reigned as queens.

They thought my home was their home.

The community awakened at night. I sat with the elders,

ran with the boys until my mother called me home.

The geckos’ click, click, click held me restless.

Sometimes I dreamt the ghosts of my ancestors visiting home.

I spent summer days walking on rice paddies

following dirt roads that lead nowhere and then home.

Philippines, you are to Maribel a past out of reach.

She holds pieces of you in memory. That is home.