The stillness clings to me like husks of grass to legs that run through summer fields. Yet sorrow creeps inside the stillness inch by toe, jabs a long-nailed finger at my sternum and my strength. I am slowing, time is rushing up to taunt me. Time is the flat palmed hand of the sternest grandmother ruining a child’s delight because hers was once stolen by poverty and bombs.
This is not crying, it is the expectation of tears. This is not goodbye, it is the anticipation of exodus, the hot-flush fear that these are trees and fields and faces I might never know again. I wish to plant myself seed-like in welcoming soil, grow indigenous, become a local landmark, belong, belong, belong.
The stillness rocks me back and forth until I fall asleep to dream of presidents and parking lots. Why must I wake and wend my way home when I already feel that home is right here?