The Sweet Smell of Burnt Gasoline Brings Me Home

Longing for something missing… missing something left behind.

A sense of home has eluded me since coming to America as a child. I am stuck in a place of the in-between… belonging to somewhere and nowhere at the same time.

Two and a half years ago, I found myself on a plane headed for Cuba. Most of my fellow passengers were coming home as evidenced by the exuberant celebration when we touched down.

Cuba should have been as foreign to me as America, yet the whiff of burnt gasoline brought me back home to the Philippines. My former home, a place I revisited 15 years prior. I wandered around Havana with a trigger finger, photographing everything from the gut.

After a few days, the feeling of home soon faded. The familiarity of the place isn’t enough to bring me all the way back. Just like the other passengers who are now only visiting, our persistent longing continues.