Language: My Querencia

Home. A place of bliss and what many would call their own “querencia”. It is as of mine. Almost everything happy and in high spirits cheers me up. As my grandma picks me up from school and we then arrive home. It’s a white house with cloth lines lined inside the garage and out. Another car is parked under the garage terribly, pushing clothes hung inside to the left. Speaking of left, I always look right to see a black blur coming out of nowhere, whizzing out of the backyard into the front and pauses. My dog, much happier than me, invites me to play. I anticipate going upstairs to play with my dog. My own Querencia.




I enter the backyard towards the garden to check if my sunflowers were growing and the sweet aroma emitting from my grandma’s flowers overpowers my one, lonely flower. But still, nonetheless, have I faith, it will continue to grow. I look down always to see my black dog panting tiredly, blasted out from running everywhere. (He’s waaaaaayyyyyyyy too hyper) and I lower my hand to pet my dog. He lowers his head as if he was bowing and it was a privilege to be pet as I touch his soft fur riding slowly from his head toward his butt. Sounds somewhat pleasant, but it’s my querencia.



Dinnertime, where food is laid out on the table, the smell of ginger, oil, butter, and more attack my nose en masse. I then eat food sent from the heavens and then go to bed by at this time, I’m tired. A soft bed to sleep on, food, my dog, entertainment, clothes, water, and entertainment and I’m happy. And I have all of that in my querencia.