You wake early again, sunlight climbing across the horizon at a different rhythm. You know the change is coming.
Moving out of illness is hope on your brow, while your wounds are still raw. It's the energy to breathe but running out of steam a mile into the run. Your father asks if you're making enough money and you say no, but things will get better. You always were a bad liar.
At the writing bar, his face greets you at the door, defeat like a hundred pounds across his shoulders. Do we move to Italy, he says, and you don't know how to explain that emigration sits in your veins like platelets. You want the blueprint? I've got you.
Your sister writes to say she's applying for citizenship.
The world changes before our eyes, chess pieces moving across the board in ways we didn't know was legal. Legal takes on a new meaning when the Emperor crowns himself and has no clothes. But inside your creative mind, the colors still paint themselves according to rules all their own, stories whisper their dreams in your ears, you know this was always your only way. Magic is made in suffering; diamonds are made under pressure.
You owe it to the world to keep at it.
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