A Home That Isn't Home

It was the plane ride home, but the word “home” felt raw on my tongue. It wasn’t my home it was a place. A place where I was suppose to enjoy my life, but it was like being held captive. Being held captive in foreign land where I felt trapped. Outside the gated walls of my compound I pleaded for release, to send me back where I belonged, the United States.
This aching throb started when my family was moved to the Qatar and I have been pleading to see family for a long time. Then my family had finally gone on a thirty-day trip to America where I was to meet up with all of my family. To meet up with wandering Aunts who where still trying to grab hold of their lives, Grandparents full of heartthrob from their grownup sons and daughters and growing up grandchildren. To also meet up with those who had passed away, one of those was my Grandfather.
But those thirty days went by to fast for me, and it wasn’t long before the soil of America left beneath my feet as I headed across a fast ocean. And it wasn’t before long when reality struck me in the face; I wasn’t going to be home in two or more years. I wasn’t going to feel grass, or the shade of trees for years to come. I couldn’t help but feel tears of sorrow swell in my eyes as we hit ground. Ever since my family was sent to Qatar I had pleaded for a place to call home, and didn’t know where to call home. But I do now, and I will be returning in two years, and I am counting every second.