Across the ocean, your father rolls in and out of hospital rooms. He sends a smiling picture after coming home, before your mother follows with one of him passed out on a bed again, monitors and wires playing tag around his body. They can’t find anything wrong, she says, but isn’t that a ridiculous thing to say? In the old hometown I say my farewells (again, again, every day is a series of hello goodbyes and you think your heart must be a very strong muscle with all this practice) and board a train north. The sun shines without apology. This morning I ran along the water, along twists and turns I’d know in my sleep, sidewalks I’ve walked home late nights and early mornings, trails I’ve run in joy and in tears, the sun shone every step as if to say we’re all okay, and I suppose it’s true.
It’s only weather.
It’s only life.
The time has come to make it something more.
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