Home, Child, Home!

• Ebony Borovica, Grade 9, Carey Baptist College
• Short Story
• 2016

Excellence Award in the 'Top Secret 2016' competition

“Where are we going?”
“Home, child, home!”
“But what’s home?”
He tells me home is seeing mother cook every night and trying to copy her afterwards.
I don’t remember that. I don’t remember anything.
It must be something spectacular, our home. All of the people on the plane can’t sit still. Some are praying in our language, some are telling tales of their homes and some are just balling their eyes out.
Me? I don’t get it.
Where we’re going… it’s not home. My home is back the way I came in Jakarta. I’m just going to a patch of land. It’s like if you were born in a hospital and that made it your home because that’s where you came from.
No. Home is more than some land and some houses and some people I can’t even remember.
As the plane flies and announces it’s about to land, I keep asking people.
“Where are we going?”
“Home, child, home!”
“But what’s home?”
He tells me about his fond memories of his friends and family. How every Tuesday, they’d all gather to play soccer.
I don’t remember that. I don’t remember anything.
As we’re taxied to the village, I ask a different lady.
“Where are we going?”
“Home, child, home!”
“But what’s home?”
She tells me about the land, the dirt and mud she’d always play in. Sometimes, she’d even get a stick and pretend she was fishing.
I don’t remember that. I don’t remember anything.
We finally arrive at my home.
It’s… odd.
There’s the children, trying to copy their mother’s cooking. Some are playing soccer. Others are pretending to fish in the mud. Everything everyone said.
But that’s not me. That’s not my home. That’s their home. My home is back with my mum, who actually teaches me to cook every night. My home is back with my dad who actually teaches me to fish. My home is back with George who plays Mario Kart with me on Tuesdays.
I know where I am now.
I turn back and sit down in the taxi, ordering them to take me away.
As we drive, I hear the distant cries of a young child.
“Where is my sister going?”
“Home, child, home.”