By Nikisha Hada
My therapist asked me if I remembered anything from my childhood.
I wanted to say something glamorous, something quantifiable but I ended up saying that “my town is not my home.”
Of what I remembered of my town was nothing more than an ancestral home, an open park and a hot summer.
I remember taking out my bicycle and riding in the evenings on minimally congested roads, there was an ice- cream vendor at the corner of the block who used to be the most secret getaway from my mom’s radar.
Yet my town is not my home.
I remember how pink skies dissolved into dawn while I fought for the swings in the park with the early encroachers, one of whom broke my nose by pushing me off the swings desiring nothing more but a few more minutes with his own childhood.
But my town is not my home.
There was a television set in my grandma’s room. where all the kids from the neighbourhood gathered to watch the latest episodes of Pokemon. The summers weren’t as hot back then nor the winters as cold.
Yet that town is not my home.
Sometimes the safest of places can make you feel the most endangered. I fell in love and it’s funny how a warm embrace can change your definition of home. I ran away from that town and I realised my home was never a city but it was him.