I don’t see my family often. I am the daughter who left. Catching flights to chase my dreams. Heads down, feet planted securely in the ground. Arms outstretched to the sun- grasping. My will grew roots in colder soils and carved homes in rocks pelted by dutch winds.
Fourteen months. Our bodies apart, distanced by seas of glittering blue and the stretch of the horizon. It ebbs until we are mere specks to float away.
We wrestle with the time, with the coats that mark the temperatures and the bags we no longer leave on the same floors.
My heart forever in airports.
Suspended in space.
Overarching strings mark my steps.
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