Windmills

Airplanes full of crying children, airports full of anticipation, I am a wet rag emptied of air, emptied of all the energy I brought on the outbound journey, filled with a magic of being seen entirely. The gift of chosen family beats in your chest like you don’t know how you got so lucky, like you don’t know why you ever feel a void, because you filled all your emptiness with them and they will not go away.

He says, you know as well as I do, speaks truths of futures you are not yet ready to see, even as you bend your worlds to meet. You book a ticket to New York, and it feels like ease, it feels like New York City is your home.

It is.

You return to America all the same as when you left, but twisted somehow, molded soft by loving pressure, fall is waiting in the wings but you feel like you are only just beginning to take off, feel like you are only just lifting, in that way it feels when spring is new and all the land lies ahead of you. An old station wagon waits in a garage, a mint green typewriter sits in quiet anticipation, you are full of love now, full of whatever comes next, there is nothing ahead but the open road, and you are ready to set back out on it, because the things to come were too fantastic not to tell.

The gifts are not lost on you.
You will not turn them down.