Are Just Trees

My father searches through cupboards for ingredients, tools; he asks about linens and shakes his head in concern about my lack of the pieces that make up a proper home. I tell him proudly I can stay another few months and he sighs. Is any of this furniture yours?

But he asks when I plan on returning to New York and it seems the day cannot come soon enough in his eyes. Make it work, make it happen, I think it's where you need to be. I was 16 once, I was angry and lost and had no idea that my biggest supporter lived in my very house, had the very same blood coursing through his veins. We seem to understand the other, even when we do not understand ourselves.

In his years, I see my life unfold. Crooked, crumbling, narrow lifelines etch their way into my skin and do not end in rainbow treasures. No matter. I had the choice once, to take the straight, wide highway through life, to coast along that white line and sleep soundly at night. I chose otherwise.

An dark path leads into the woods. There's nowhere to go now but forward.