What is a home?

The place you were born in, or a place thousands of miles away where you were born anew
The place you were raised, or the place that raised you
Or could it be two or more places, like the continents of Europe, Asia, and North America
Shifting, colliding, bumping, subduing, morphing, intertwining, in a beautiful 
Chaos.
Is it a feeling
The most riveting of kinds
That starts from deep within
With each breath and every heartbeat
Pulsing through and taking control of those stomach butterflies we don’t listen to
Enough.
A flurry of mixed emotions
Of memories, of sights and sounds, of tastes and laughter, of food and food and food
Of experiences
A silent contemplated answer to the question “what is home for you?”
Speaking of questions, the worst of all
Is “where are you from?”
A loaded question
With a million possibilities
But only one that you’re looking for.
Should I say where I was born?
Where I was raised?
Or where my parents were?
Or where I feel most comfortable now?
Do you just want me to confirm your preconceived notions of where I look like I’m from?
Perhaps.
Perhaps there’s a beauty in having just one home
It’s simpler that way
Answering questions might even be easier
But perhaps for us multi-cultured kids, we need to feel comfortable belonging to multiple worlds
It’s a home in itself
A place I call
The in between.