Homesick

Imagine. Imagine a morning, a morning unlike another other morning ever since. And just like every other morning, up until then. And then imagine all those mornings of the world. My world gone, almost in an instant. And so begins the hunger. The hunger for memories, the hunger for family, the hunger for freedom. And everywhere I see Galicia. I taste Galicia. I feel Galicia.

And we sprout wings and take flight, with a hunger to be free. Galicia, her sons and daughters spread across the world. And we infuse the world with a fresh hot blood of a new land. Galicia is there.

Whenever food rises above mere sustenance, I smell the sweetness of a manzana. I feel the memories of caldo and family. Galicia is there.

When words fail me, I get lost in her literature. I fear to ask, will memories keep me safe? Hold me? Will they last? Will they last a lifetime? Or two or perhaps three? Letters sent a long time ago, kept alive by pure will and faith. In the images of life so loved, Galicia is there.

Liberty is a tasty dish, best served hot with courage. When I look for courage, Galicia is there.

In the halls of power, in the lonely battlefields of war, in the struggles for freedom, Galicia is there.

Her influence no longer limited by borders, her ideas transcend time and space. She infuses me with a thrill for life and a longing for freedom. It is life breathing in my chest. Every day I see Galicia. Every day I feel Galicia. Every day I taste Galicia. She has changed the world, my Galicia. She has changed my world, my Galicia. And someday, she promises on a morning unlike any other, on a morning unlike any ever in the history of the world, I will lay my head on her shoulders, once more in her arms, her arms around me, and I will feel my Galicia.

I will come home to her in freedom, because the road to liberty is a road of fate. A road of inescapable certainty, and that road leads home to Galicia and no one can stop it. I will come home. Home to my Galicia.

Mi Galicia Querida