Look, look at the rain pounding into the dust outside, doesn’t it sound like home? Like tin roofs and shouting and laughter?
You would remember these things, if you were here, and so I say them to the empty space all around me, to the memory of your presence.
We were made of different stuff, you and I. I am stardust, never content with small and you are the oak trees strong and steady, so you know, I’ll visit you again someday but I won’t stay. Will you forgive me for that?
Life is supposed to be built of love but you and I have made it out of minutes in the middle of years, out of snapshot memories faded at the edges.
Look, look at this place and how empty it is without you. The world is big but our hearts are small and you’re invited, you know. To come.
I come from new names of old lands, Oceans, islands, continents, Snow and sand.
Between the blood spilled for selfish reasons, the crucifixion of sheep as camouflage for our fears; Home…
The place I come from …
Sometimes its people disappear with the wind, Its shape shifts from blinks to tears And whenever it does so it turns me into a foreign, again.
That’s how I get lost; how I get home; simply to leave again.
I come from seashells, different smells, Tastes, colors, Fetishes in the spotlight, the holy of brothels!
Where I come from… I sleep naked, covered by 3 blankets, waking up sweaty. I wear boots at the beach, Slippers at parties and I’m barefoot in the streets. Never ugly, nor pretty, the eccentric, the exotic Neither usual, nor repugnant, yet intriguing, deceiving.
The place I come from is a loop, a pattern in space, not very different from here, quite similar actually! It feels good to be back for the first time; Again.
“This is called the MK Patriot. I made it because many times I feel torn between supporting all the countries I love. I am an MK (missionary kid). I grew up in Panama and Paraguay, and my parents are from the USA and Canada.”
Do you know how many times I have moved? Sometimes I count them on my fingers, fistful after fistful of tears swollen in my throat and I try to remember every single one but I can’t.
Too many. Too many times, it’s the only number that fits the emotion and I know this won’t make sense to you but my hands are full of this place now and I can’t hold any more.
When I open my palms the memories are dripping out and I’m afraid if I stay longer I will forget.
I don’t want to forget.
Do you know how many times I have moved? When I sleep I dream of muted whispers in languages you don’t speak and when I wake up I write songs about the dusty grass of places you’ve never been and sometimes when you hold my hand I imagine the worlds I have known imprinted on my palm, burning you in your ignorance. How could anyone expect you to love something as fragmented as me?
I tried, I really tried to unclench my fists of memories, to open up my hands and belong. But every time I look at my palm I see the lines of roads leading other places and I can’t stop tracing them, can’t stop aching to leave. I can’t be part of a whole world; everything is random moments and I am disconnected from the planned future.
I’m not here to stay. I’m never here to stay.
You asked me tonight to go out with you, tired grin through voice texting and I wanted to say no.
But instead I said yes and I drove on these winding roads that never lead to other places and I opened my hands to you. I stayed another day, I spilled a few more memories and let you matter a little bit more – I loved.
Do you know how many times I have moved?
Too many, it’s the only answer that fits and when I tell you I love you I want you to think of that. I don’t know how to be a part of just one world, how to hold your hand and love and be loved without being burned by the smallness of the story.
Staying here is like being trapped, and I value freedom. But even more than freedom, I value you.
This is a TCK’s love poem, telling you how badly I want to leave in hopes that you will understand how deeply you matter…
It’s okay if you don’t understand.
There is a vast difference between us, a Sahara Desert of sandy separation but I’m trying (please tell me you can see that I’m trying) not to keep my distance.
It’s my desert. And every day I stay the liquid memories leak out of my hands into the sand and I think, I think, new life is growing here. New life, small and green and fragile, hopeful and timid.
So I will grow a trail of oasis across this desert, copy for you the map of roads on my palms and let you destroy this distance I have always kept.
But I’m not making promises.
One day I will add another number to “too many” and I will shut my fists tight around these memories and I will leave.
But today is not one day, and for now I am busy growing life in a desert with you.
Just don’t keep your distance, and I won’t keep mine.
