Home Was A Gift Of God

back then, where you lived was where you were alive
and you climbed trees, you could touch the sky
back when houses hid behind garden forests and felt safe,
when homes were families,
not masterpiece monuments of brick and glass,
to flaunt prestige and class.

the mailbox hung proud upon the gate.
letters went in the slot,
the newspaper in the cylinder on top
and life was that simple
because everything was where it was supposed to be.
the gate was rusty red with diagonal grills,
which made it tricky to climb.
every contact left a mark,
guilty like bloodstains.
evidence that revealed your rebellion
simply because dad demanded it locked.

you could sit beside it and count cars
as they cruised by,
when mom and dad left for school to become
other children's parents.
one day they would put you in a bus for your first day of school
you fought them as long as you could
but those arms weren't strong enough.
you exhausted them the evening before
as you stood in the driveway trying to fly away
wishing to the stars that could be seen
from this city of meritocracy,
telling them to take you away,
while a rolling tear cries 'no!'
and your 7 year old heart resolves to never grow old,
to never grow cold, to never withhold.

and some wishes do come true
and while you stood in that driveway
behind a rusty red gate
of a house on a hill
on a road of jasmine
a voice above your head will say
you are
in the right place;
you are a gift of God.

- Daryl Goh