“I want to be sunlight on a stranger’s skin, the same way my mother’s voice gently coaxes them awake during a parking lot conversation. She is a brass compass in a dark wood and the familiar grain of a kitchen floor under a messy breakfast table. Her heartbeats are the grandfather clock you hear down the hall. She is the raw rip of sympathy you feel between your ribs when you see someone crying at the gas station and she breathes out, into the air, tenderness like a bird unfurling her wings.
I want to be thunder in the soles of my boots, the same way my father’s voice pulls answers from the wind. He is the kiss of December frost along a fence-line and all the fixed constellations you gaze at with tired eyes; a lighthouse beckoning you home from the white-capped sea aboard a boat built in beams of retreat. His essence is the smell of coffee when you wake, the morning still tucked dark behind the curtains. He is the soul-shredding pride you feel when your baby giggles at you across a room and he sighs out, into the air, cleverness like leaves unfurling on an ancient oak.”
- Brianna (6-21-2020)