here on the west coast, where i limped tiredly back through the wide empty walkways, after which i didn't wash my hair for four days because it smelled like your house.

in the midwest, where i sat against a window-wall and held my cell phone to my ear with a shaking arm, so far from the end but farther away from home. [even now i cry to think about my brother, following the weather and the flight schedules online, calling to keep me informed.] and then your helpless voice, at home, and so unready for this burden.

in the dark, i crept into a brightly-lit bathroom and glanced at myself in the mirror, but my stomach was churning so violently that i couldn't remember what i was supposed to look like. so i walked out and into your arms for the first time.

from a deserted terminal to a crowd so thick i couldn't see over their shoulders for my suitcase to come sliding down.

from a dry, frozen, rigid winter to rain-soaked, still-green pastures and muddy puddles outside your front door.

from two men who couldn't stop calling me to find out how i was, where i was, what i was doing, and perched on the verge of killing were i not happy... to a skinny boy with the solidity of the wind's breath, holding on to nothing and nothing worth holding on to.

we fly, fly, fly.