My fingers have made imprints on my bike’s cool rubber handlebars.
And no longer does the misty morning rain surprise me.
Rather, my skin readily absorbs each drop of moisture at seven thirty every morning.
My feet have memorized every pothole, every bump in the road.
No longer does the rush of cars frighten me
I effortlessly become a part of the river of traffic,
Letting the current simply take me.
No longer do the brown eyes locked to my white face bother me.
No longer do I notice the smog, the air’s filth.
I cannot recall what clean, fresh air smells like.
My nose has accepted smoke, exhaust, and dust as normal.
The strangers I called my relatives are now family.
The unfamiliar house is now my home.
No longer does ten thousand miles seem far, or four months feel long.
No longer is Viet Nam just a place. It is home.
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