Bare echoes. Turgid thoughts. One stainless steel glass full of the sea. One field of fragrant grass and the afternoon sun in the sky dotted with white fluffy clouds that look like hope. The wind in my hair and the heat on my skin and forever in my blood. Home is a taste on my tongue. Home is the place I go when I dream. My roads are not tar-sealed and my buses are an hour late. Home is the place of hurricanes and Frangipani and sugarcane fields. Of hornets and rain and mud. Bright red hibiscus, sweet pink guava meat and the luscious mangoes. Home is green and white uniforms and shadows. Of innocence measured in teaspoons and afternoon cartoons. Home is watching the rain dance on the ground under the mango trees. Furtive glances at first crushes and the touch of your fingers on mine. Innocence mixed with a thrill. Home is found on the barks of coconut trees and in the yellow of bananas. It is found when playing golf with discarded metal pieces and rugby with a volley ball. Home is where anything is possible if you have a bit of hope and some determination. I miss it.