Dear K.,
Once I flew 511 miles from everything I knew and when I landed, you said welcome home. The grass was blue. Everyone I met carried books. No one called me names except writer. I kept checking my pulse—yes, there’s the blood, surface to air, still there. I drank wine like I could afford it and danced to make new muscle memories. There was an election and I met you on the street between lectures, your voice was soft indignation, my voice was loud indignation, and we embraced because the world was doomed again but the wine had not run out. I had to leave eventually; my life is leavings, it shouldn’t hurt anymore, but, there’s the blood again. I returned. I left. Returned. I boomed and boomeranged and for once, no one called me names. Except writer. Then it happened—you came to me instead, I was living 1089 miles from everything I knew and you flew 704 miles from our first hug to be a writer, too, but somewhere new. There was wine again, there were hugs again, and the grass was brown on the plains. You were writing about tigers and I gave you a tiger’s eye in the shape of heart. Let’s resist that metaphor; my heart is not stone but so much blood. I love you–your grounding warmth and safe-bet smile–wherever I am and you are in the doomed world, and also on this page. Welcome home.
xo S
**
another writing mom 
Love, love, love this, dear Writer.
LikeLiked by 1 person