*
Departures
After saying goodbye to my grandmother
her body cradled in a satin-lined casket
I repacked my bags and headed to the airport
said goodbye to my family, my dog, my life:
I wasn’t coming back.
As the plane flew across flat plains
checked like a checkerboard
I slowly shed layers of myself
leaving them to land where they may
My face turned toward the setting sun
The moment I stepped foot on my new street
my mother called: “Grandpa just died.”
My knees buckled
and I crumpled into a pile of bones.
All that was left were bones.
They would not let me leave
They knew where I belonged
Home was the place I just left—
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