Image used by permission of Gail Baker
It wasn’t like coming home to a comfortable bed,
a welcome return to childhood security.
It wasn’t like the awkward ignorance of an attendee who tagged along without an invitation, either.
It wasn’t like a singular heartbeat, but it wasn’t a ubiquitous rhythm,
at least not consciously.
It wasn’t like a journey to a foreign land,
but it sure as hell wasn’t anything like the place where the rest of my life happens, where the
ancient syllables are forgotten and the intricate web of myths scorned.
It wasn’t as pristine as the alpine fields or the delicate reaches of sunlight licking the moss-drooping trees.
It wasn’t as deep as the glacial moulin or the inexplicable need for a mother’s touch.
It was a little shrill, a little disquieting.
A little painful and easy to disregard.
The feeling penetrated; led me on a labyrinthine path
through magic I used to know and discoveries I haven’t yet made and secrets I have not told.
The only expressions that exited the womb were hot tears and a confused smile.
Art by Gail Baker