Leaving my ‘home’ Rwanda was the hardest thing I have ever done. I had the gift of feeling rooted to my country of birth, having lived in the same house for 16 years. I was familiar with always saying goodbye to people, relationships were never constant, but my home was always there for me. The cool brick walls, the creak of the doors, the big tree out back, and the smell of rain falling, those were my home. When I was told we are leaving for good, it felt like my world shattered. I attached myself to that place so deeply that saying goodbye felt like I was letting my heart die. And sometimes if feels that way because since then, I learned to hold things very loosely. I don’t invest too deeply because I don’t ever want to experience that hurt again. Writing this poem allowed me to treasure the old familiarity and remember the home I used to belong to. I know that Rwanda has deeply stained my identity with beautiful colors. Even if I live thousands of miles away, I will never lose those hues.