Every time I move

Every time I move, I remember I’m the daughter of immigrants 

I notice the way I keep the smallest things that make life easier in the short-term, but not so great in the long-term 

I keep spices like there might be some end-of-the-world crisis 

But things for me? 

It’s more so for necessity

buying what’s needed to keep up appearances, but barely something that I’ll treasure and keep  

Every time I move, I feel it again

I’m never fully here, never fully there,

just someone who lives in the in-betweens

And somehow this particular in-between is one I’ve learned to be grateful for

One I’ll always keep.