Daddy took out the winter clothes,
Mother put naphthalene balls,
like pearls in each nook.
Sister took a good look at starched curtains
and I got ready to rejuvenate rooms.
Before the onset of this year,
we folded up old grievances and kept them,
stain-free and yet creased,
in an old stranded strip of land,
The No Man’s Land,
at the cusp of the midnight hour
and dusted off that whole jot of homeward bound trajectories.
Across a less complicated border,
we parked our R. V.,
transferred all our allegiances and
cooked and cleaned in a whole wide ground.
Our overseer being destiny and God and English language tidbits.
Little does this sleepy town know
that we have dragged a home for four,
all the way here,
hardly resisting domesticity.
Running errands and lining up to take turns at the tap,
for cooling off our heads,
we call this our great migration.
For housekeeping runs in our gypsy veins
and spirits of settling here make up more than hope.
NOTE : this is dedicated to every migrant or refugee seeking a stable core as HOME.