Thinking about writing.

Always coming home.

Picture of a street in St. Petersburg, FL

Flying out of the sunrise
poor old head buzzing with
birthdates and deathdates and branches of stories
on a family tree I have rarely paused beneath
it becomes clear that the word
means more than
a common ancestor
and even more than
small wrists
poor depth perception
gapped teeth
chronic wanderlust
and careers built at the intersection of
technology and words.

We didn’t grow up together
but we grew up in the same manner
with stories of
dusty poverty
runaway divas
lost children
ruined lives
told or never told around our tables.

You remind me of my grandmother, you said,
(in this case, the finest compliment.)
Say it again, you said,
you sound like Ruby.
That’s my favorite story, you said,
about a man you may have met once in 1979
and his son, who was different.
(It’s mine, too.)
Tell me about your mother, you said.
And I did.
Oh, I did.

You, cousin, with your storyteller voice and
your musician hands and
your artist soul.
You embody
the strength of the blood.
We will gather you in as one of our own, you said.
It’s what we do.
And so you did.

With you, cousin,
it’s like I’m
Always coming home.


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