To be a thread woven in. One thread my mother. Another my father. Sister. Brother. A thread stories told by fireside. A thread grandmother's voice and pancakes. Stars at night. Street names.
But in LA I am woven to nothing. No family song to sing or skin to touch, dangling and vulnerable to the dry salty sky wearing me down. The thread longing for her weave. To be woven into something. A family singing. Scrabble. Potato soup and dumplings.
I fear the fabric of the world is loosening. Weavings coming undone. I am not the only thread dangling in the wind. Our hearts long to be home, but we've forgotten the way like travelers who, in a tired delusion, forget there are directions, maps, a compass. That water is East. Parched in the desert, we thirst for that which we forgot exists, but it's our souls that know, and our souls that moan, and our souls that are calling us home.