It's the people that make home

I can't read the signs, but
I know what they say:
"Home, this way; 
city and work that way."
I can't read the signs, or
the menu, but I know what
I want, and where to go:
They looks so happy and so full,
the wait pushing the doors;
let's go there. That, on that table,
it looks delicious. What is it called?
I think I'll have that.
The father frowns at the
impudence of the stranger,
and the small son giggles and
laughs and points. The mother
touches the child's seat but smiles,
knowingly, and I think they
look a lot like my parents,
not by their faces but by how
they move and act. I am home
in a home not my own and
if the food tastes a little odd,
it is delicious and hearty and
there is so much reminding me
of home, I cannot remember to
feel homesick--except of course
the every now and then that I do,
because "familiar" isn't perfectly
the same, even if it's awful close.