After Hindi class this afternoon, I’m heading home. Home to work, to stuff my face, to process all that I’ve learned lately, to make exhaustive lists of all that I am thankful for, and to relax in the company of my great family.
Abby + Kelsey + respective husbands will not be here this year and I don’t know what to make of this, but I’m thankful to have had time with them this weekend.
No matter how many times I’ve traveled the distance between Chapel Hill and home, I still get excited. Something in my body//spirit belongs on the road. I never tire of traveling, packing bags and going. . . I have a much harder time staying in one place and feeling settled than I do moving//traveling//going. . .
The vast sadness of my family
is an ocean rehearsing its sorrow
against the intractable night.
By light we are careful, bruised
and beautiful as script, hair tangled
from evening’s beating. We stoop
to inspect the night’s debris
and do not recognize black
half-hearts of shell (that are ours),
wool of kelp. The jetty’s battered
knuckles count the endless waves
rolling in. Watching birds drawn
as graphite on sky, we forget
our night deaths. I do not understand
this, nor our strange thick hair, only
that I am of it. Wheat of my mother,
father’s beard of bees: I am their
provided. O mineral violence
release their salt traffic, their
hovering at sea. I will exist.
Give them what they want.
– Quinn Latimer
[Photos: Stop along the journey somewhere in Greensboro//Grace Farson]