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Quote by Emily Habeck

“Every creek, spring, grove, hill, and ridge had a story. In these stories, the boundary between the living and dead became thin if not completely transparent. Angela began to understand why people in Julia's family rarely moved away. The family's lives and the land were bound to each other as if they were the same body.”

Quote by Emily Habeck

Book:Shark Heart
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Shark Heart

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Emily Habeck

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“The two-story dwellings of this city are, beyond all question, the best, as a system, not only owing to the single family ideas they represent, but because their cost is within the reach of all who desire to own their own homes. They have done more to elevate and to make a better home life than any other known influence. They typify a higher civilization, as well as a truer idea of American home life, and are better, purer, sweeter than any tenement house systems that ever existed. They are what make Philadelphia a city of homes, and command the attention of visitors from every quarter of the globe”

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Author:Frank H. Taylor
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“To love a country as if you’ve lost one: as if it were you on a plane departing from America forever, clouds closing like curtains on your country, the last scene in which you’re a madman scribbling the names of your favorite flowers, trees, and birds you’d never see again, your address and phone number you’d never use again, the color of your father’s eyes, your mother’s hair, terrified you could forget these. To love a country as if I was my mother last spring hobbling, insisting I help her climb all the way up to the U.S. Capitol, as if she were here before you today instead of me, explaining her tears, cheeks pink as the cherry blossoms coloring the air that day when she stopped, turned to me, and said: You know, mijo, it isn’t where you’re born that matters, it’s where you choose to die—that’s your country.”

HomeAmericaPoetryUnited StatesPoemImmigrationImmigrantsCountriesEmigration
Book:How to Love a Country
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“How could you, America? With no answer for all I knew of country was my hurt and rage. But home was home: I dusted off the secrets, cleaned up the lies, nailed the creaky floors down, set a fire, and sat with history books I’d never opened, listened to songs I’d never played, pulled out the old map from a dark drawer, redrew it with more colors, less lines. I stoked the fire, burning on until finally: Okay, nothing’s perfect, I understood, I forgive you, I said—and forgiveness became my country.”

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Book:How to Love a Country
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“She paused, taking in the display of scarlet pelargoniums, the topiary lion painstakingly created by Hoskins, the head gardener, and the tall monkey-puzzle tree that her father had planted on the occasion of her birth twenty-five years before. She noticed bees flitting from bloom to bloom, filling the air with the sound of their low hum, and over that the bright squawks of a pair of choughs. In the distance, the kitchen garden beckoned, sunlight reflecting off the panes of the glasshouse, where pineapples and tomatoes grew in the forced tropical heat.”

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Author:Kayte Nunn
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“In the silence of EXILE, echoes of longing resonate, whispering tales of a home left behind. Dreams cling to distant landscapes, and the heart, a wanderer, seeks solace in the shadows of nostalgia. The soul, a nomad, yearns for the warmth of belonging, tracing memories like constellations in the vast emptiness of distance. Exile, a poignant coherence of loss, carries the weight of unspoken goodbyes, yet within its somber notes, resilience blossoms, a testament to the enduring spirit that persists, resilient in the face of separation.”

HomeLongingResilienceNostalgiaSeparationEmptinessBelongingExileGoodbyes
Author:Monika Ajay Kaul
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“Last thing: one Sunday evening about a year before all this we were on the telephone, my mother and I; it was just after we sold the house and she’d moved to the facility, where she was allowed a small sensible room and a few possessions. As we talked I was watching snow drift down the dusk outside, counting it, one hundred and five, one hundred and six, one hundred and seven, when out of a pause she said, ‘It’s funny to have no home’ — funny being a funny word for what she meant. I say this now to remind myself how words can squirt sideways, mute and mad; you think they are tools, or toys, or tame, and all at once they burn all your clothes off and you’re standing there singed and ridiculous in the glare of the lightning. I hung up the phone. I stared at the snow for some time. I expect she did too.”

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Book:Wrong Norma
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