Before you became a bird, when you were earthbound, but the sky taunted you with the low clouds of escaped sunsets murmuring of empty seas, whispering of sailor’s delights. My grandmother said you were never quiet of this realm, always wanting to get to the other side—of what, we never knew. Perhaps the beveled edges of a clouded mirror. When reality became corseted, you traipsed off to distant horizons, but still, the darkness found you out. I was but a child. I had no words for the places you went, the people you met on the littered streets, that place where the fringes of humanity called home. When I was older, sometimes our worlds collided, we found a common ground that became a conversational thread, a place where memory and experience was topstitched into a quilt of longing and regret. A single feather drifts down from the clouds to land at my feet like a small oarless boat adrift on an empty sea.
Before you became a bird, you were earthbound, the sky taunting you with clouds and lurid sunsets. She said you were never quiet of this realm, always wanting to get to the other side. When reality became a burden, you traipsed off into a world of your own choosing, but the darkness found you out. I was a child. I had no words for the places you went, the people you met in the marginalized world, that fringe, the margins of humanity called home. Sometimes our worlds intercepted and common ground became our conversation thread, a place where memory experience was sewn into that patchwork quilt of regret.
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