I make my house in words.
Sung or spoken or written, that’s home.
Somewhere over the rainbow between “I wear your granddad’s clothes, I look incredible,” and “Please, sir, may I have some more?”
Between storybooks and catchy hooks,
Between nothing and everything.
Between the quiet contemplation that comes after the completing of the last page of something incredible,
And the thumping walls when the music is too loud,
Which is almost music in itself.
That’s where I find I belong.
Querencia is a Spanish word.
It means affection for the place that one calls home.
Querencia is where you’re understood and unafraid.
Querencia is safe and irreplaceable.
Querencia is the buzzing of the strings of the guitar,
Or your favorite food.
Querencia is all-encompassing.
Querencia is self-defining.
Your Querencia is not you,
You are your Querencia.
You find yourself going back and going back,
Until it is part of you.

I wrap myself in poetry when I can’t find a quilt.
I listen to Flight of the Conchords and Garfunkel & Oates when I’m feeling down.
I sing “Hey Jude” and “I don’t like Mondays” while I do homework.
“I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” is the best song on long trips,
Weird Al when I need to smile and John Green when I’ve got to cry.
“Play that Funky Music White Boy” has been my personal theme song for so long.
Hermoine is my role model and Holden Caulfield thinks I’m a phony.
My books used to be in waist-high stacks around my room until I got a bookshelf, last year.
Emily Dickenson taught me that “Forever is composed of nows.”
Charles C. Finn taught me that I’m not the only one who wishes that someone would “Please Hear what I’m Not Saying.”
Alaska taught me about the great perhaps,
And I’ll be honest, I’ve got a huge crush on Dr. Sheldon Cooper PhD.
The Sunflower Garden was my favorite book as a child, because Pipsa was so strong.
The Princess Bride taught me that true love does not stop, not even for death.
While I was reading “The Name of the Star” I nearly decapitated my friend when they scared me from behind
Dizzy was the first thing I ever read that made me realize I want to see the world.
Speak helped me heal, The Book Thief broke my heart, and Ponyboy made me think about how family doesn’t just mean blood.
I make my home in words.
There I feel invincible.
There I feel powerful and magical and brave.
I never plan on returning to reality,
It is unexpected.
I am yanked out of my safe house.
Ripped away from the righteous ramblings of whatever I’m reading.
I notice the things no one else does because my Querencia demands it.
I listen and ask questions and I’m stubborn.
I wishfully wait for a way to make someone wonder about what they would’ve never questioned before.
I love words, and they accept me.
I carry them with me and speak them when it’s right, and when it’s not.
I mess words up.
I say something too loud, or not loud enough.
I say things I shouldn’t, because sometimes the words move on their own.
I don’t say things I should, because I’m too afraid.
I sing in the shower, and in the car, and at church.
At band practice, and on the bus, and while I’m cooking.
I sing all the time.
It doesn’t matter if no one wants to hear it, or if I can’t hit the notes.
I read while I’m walking to class, while I can’t sleep, when I’m in the car.
Words are my home, and I’m a hermit.
I never leave them, I keep them in my hands and in my mouth and in my heart.
My Querencia is words.
I am my Querencia.
I am made of words.