Life Passport

I was born in the pale suburbs of San Francisco’s fog,

A world away from the burning sun of Tashkent.

Raised in the glitter of California’s neon streets,

Far from the shadow of Uzbekistan’s eternal mountains.

I learned sweetness from a crinkling bag of M&M’s,

While my uncle savored the dense honey of Medovik.

I found comfort in a steaming bowl of mac and cheese,

While my grandparents indulged in a bag of frozen Pelmeni.

I dressed in plastic masks on Halloween,

Begging strangers for candy under porchlight moons.

While my aunts wrapped themselves in frayed Sarafans,

Trying to stay awake during the freezing winter noon.

And so I wondered —

Are we exiles from our own inheritance?

No, мой дедушка yelled in my ears.

Blood remembers what borders forget.

Tradition survives the silence of oceans,

Home is not erased by distance,

But instead awaits in the heart that pumps our blood.

And in the end,

It is not betrayal to be different,

It is necessary to survive.

It is a new life that we get to live,

A new opportunity to take on.