By R.A. Villanueva
Not vinegar. Not acid. Not
sugarcane pressed to mortar by
fist, but salt: salt, the home taste; salt,
the tide; salt, the blood. Not Holy
Ghost, but a saint of coral come
to life in the night crossing a
field of brambles and thorns, the camps
of pirates beat back to the bay
with hornets. Not Santo Niño.
And not a belt of storms, but this:
girls singing, an avocado
in each open palm, courting doves;
a moth drawn to the light of our
room you take to be your father.
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"What to say when someone asks where home is...when you were born a hemisphere away, but have inherited its faiths and myths, its capacity for awe?" Villanueva asked Poets.org. "You give yourself permission to feel at home in your blood; you try to invent a new language for your answer."
Paul's brother Jon was visiting Clair and Cinda in Hanover, so we drove up there in the morning and spent the day with them, having lunch at Lu Hibachi Buffet and watching baseball while catching up on various family members. It was nice and relaxing and good to see him, and on the way home we stopped at the Gettysburg Cavalry Field which is on the way to the highway, as well as many horse farms.
In the evening, we watched The Hunger Games: Mockingjay Part 2 while eating sandwiches since we were too full from lunch to eat much more. I don't think it's as powerful as its prequel -- Coin is more interesting when she's more a person and less a type, and Gale is more likeable as a character than a plot device -- but I will always appreciate Effie's and Haymitch's story arcs and I will always love Katniss!
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