I tried not to cry.
Made it from the car, through the strong lingering hug that says all the things you don’t have words for, and to the ticket counter. Then I cried. Nothing weepy or soul trembling, blinding or compulsive. Just tepid liquid sadness sliding from my eyes, collecting on my chin. The kind that smears makeup and makes the white ladies clutch their handbags a little tighter. The kind with an inverse correlation with my will for it to stop and it’s will to keep on going.
I cried.
For everything that I had, that I have, that’s not with me. That’s with me in memory. With me in impulsive text messages. Captured, still, in fixed smiles in brushed silver frames. I feel a lost loss. Like everything was water in hands that seeped through the crevices of my obligation. I laid in California King of cotton balls and was delivered to a marathon in the sand. Started in math and ended up in differential equations.
I inhaled.
Breathed in the sights and sounds and smells and warmth of home. Felt the ocean on my cheek, gave the sunset a piece of my heart. Smiled with those who know my smile. Laughed at jokes with secret punchlines. Saw the rich texture of me. The brick and mortar of me. Examined my foundation, filled the cracks and polished the brass and reinforced the columns.
I exhaled.
I wiped the last tear when I remembered. Remembered that novels are rich because they have chapters. The world moves because it has seasons. Music stimulates you because it changes. Everything being moves.
And I want to be. Moved.
