the cycle

in the air. on the air. of the air.

off. the air. out of our vehicle. on to land. to this foreign place.

and here. the air. salty. dry. bright.

and the sidewalks. paved with dirt. fresh dirt. clean dirt. pure dirt.

feet sinking in to the earth with each footstep. like walking on foam.

no bags. no phone. no way of escaping the past, present, or future. i am here for the first time. with mother at my side.

she speaks no words. she is able to be. and she being is enough. we’re in this together. calm washes over me. i feel light.

i am her. and she is here.

how long will we be?

no matter.

looking down. i see the butterflies. everywhere. their wings littering the sidewalk. littering the dirt. littering our path.

bodies attached to wings. tiny bodies. or are they snakes? are they tiny snakes with wings?

no matter.

she picks one up. and it turns to mud. i feel the body crumble in her hands. wet and elastic.

one moment these bodies are bodies. and when they are no longer bodies, they are dirt. fresh dirt. clean dirt. pure dirt.

yet the wings that were once attached to these bodies remain. glittering the sidewalk. glittering the dirt. glittering our path.

no longer does this place feel foreign.

for. in this place. the wings are eternal.

and that is enough.

 

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