We drove 23 hours south with wet eyes, right through the Tennessee sunset. "Back to our roots" they said, I insisted my skin was made up of pines not palms- despite years of laying claim to the beach in my blood.

[I have never bloomed there, Mom]

The picture perfect opposite of homeless-- I still panic when asked my address, Learning the consequences of being rich in places and people I love. Together we bear our scars,

I wonder what it's like to be a piece in a puzzle, what it's like to live with the promise you are always part of a whole. There are days I do not want to be a picture, days I swear the pieces do not fit together

"What is art?"

I lay on the new carpet next to my sister who claims it is when creativity blooms out of a person.

A few months in art school has taught me she is wrong, fifteen years has taught me she is probably right. How lovely it is to have her in the passenger side.
I drive, We ride.
(e.r.c)