The short brunette, Hispanic woman in her mid-ages gently strolled into the waiting room, as if she did not want to disturb anyone with her heavy footsteps. Each footstep stomped firmly on the ground implementing defeat of the heart. She looked as though she had given up on fighting back whatever the problem was, that consumed her. As she sunk her bottom down in to the cushiony wooden chair, tears began to flood her face, submerging her eyes…allowing each tear to roll down and over her high cheekbones, for they had nowhere else to go. Finally ready to speak she turned too swiftly towards a woman that seemed to be a close friend or a family member. Tenderly trying to open her mouth to speak, she had trouble, for as she spoke a tear would find her lips, fleeing directly to the back of her throat. Unable to express her thoughts manually, she only felt comfortable talking in her native language. Each word gradually picking up pace, flowing gently off her tongue right on into the other woman’s ear, who seemed to instantly understand. It is as though her demeanor suggested to everyone, home is where ever you pitch a tent. Her fluent Spanish flooded the cold, uncomfortable atmosphere of a hospital waiting room, heating it up. With every spoken word and syllable I was transported back home, remembering that I too had my own native language, and my tent was already pitched for me. My mother to my right, my farther to the left, my brother right in front of me, and my uncle not too far away. For a moment there, I was truly at home, the land of my farther and the land that held my spirit. The feeling only temporary vanished when the Hispanic woman got up escaping thee oversized modeled waiting room.