It was years ago,

But I remember

The smell of

Baked bread and honey,

The spring colors of the soft floured rice cakes,

And the sound of the

Fins of the silver fish, Splashing in the

pools at the market.

My five year old eyes darted back and

Forth,

in those streets,

Until they met her smile…

She told me the names of the fish and laughed

When I tried to

Pronounce them.

She held onto my hand,

Her warmth gripping mine as she

Told me,

Everything has a name,

even the fish…

And everything

Has an energy that flows just like the heat in our hands,

that People now days,

Seemed to have lost…

She said that

Someday she hoped that I would learn to feel

the current of its movement

And remember;

This,

Is our home…

It's five-thirty right now…

Mom's leaning over the stove,

cooking dinner, like she does every night.

I'm only looking at her back from

around the corner,

But somehow

I know that

This place,

Isn't home.

And she

Doesn't remember the names of the fish,

Or the

Smells of the streets…

So I smile and I

wonder if – holding her hand

And letting my warmth grab her's, will

Pull on that memory,

Just like I pulled on her arm

And repeated that names of the fish until I had them

Memorized – I

Looked up to the sky and wondered if the ocean was just as blue,

if the fish missed their home,

Or if they even knew the difference.

Because back then,

I sure didn't…

But it's Five-Thirty-One right now,

And even though home is

Half-way around the world,

My hands are still warm

So maybe we can

Still -

Name the fish.