Come Home to Tiwi

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

You, the accident of genius,
the wrong birth in the right family
of merchants of pride—
come home.
Come home to the place where no one
waits at the gate,
where no voice ever called
your name without a wince.

They never wanted you,
the boy who read too fast,
who answered before they could finish
asking. Your brilliance
was a burn mark on their paper-doll
reputations,
your medals like knives
hanging on the wall.

You have no aunts.
No uncles.
Only bloodline strangers
who count cash like rosary beads
and speak of God only when
calculating interest.
One flew to Texas—
and dropped the language,
the surname, the shame.
Another teaches in the next barangay—
but her silences are made
of your name,
bitten down like a secret
she never earned.

One cousin married young
to a man who didn’t finish college—
now her face folds in anger
whenever you are mentioned,
the son who left and did not break.
The son who wrote books
while they memorized
car brands and bank codes.
The son who passed exams
and was punished
by being forgotten.

Come home to Tiwi.
Not to arms.
There are none.
But to the tree whose bark
you carved initials into,
to the broken step
you fixed with your own hands,
to the house that sagged under
the weight of inherited silence.

They never missed you.
They loved your absence.
It gave them room to boast
without your shadow
swallowing the room.

But the soil missed you.
The rain still waits to touch
your hair like your mother
never did.
The mountains remember
your footsteps
like a diary they never lent
to anyone else.

Come home,
not to be held—
but to reclaim what they sold
for gold that turned
to rust in their pockets.
Come home
not to be forgiven,
but to forgive the sky
for not shielding you,
and the land
for loving you in silence.

You, boy made of light
in a family of shadows—
come home to Tiwi,
because only the wind
knows your real name.