I long to share and break bread.
For rectangular tables with rows of strangers-turned-friends.
To hear the sound of forks scraping on plates and inebriated laughter hovering in the air.
For the day’s worries to dim like the light and for hearts to fill alongside bellies.
I long to love and be led.
For legs intertwined in sheets, a place where sacred and stupid meet.
For steady hands that pull and careful feet that pursue.
To grow, to root, to sink, but to always keep our wings.
I long to be with, not for.
To stand in the right place, not take the right stand.
For the call that elicits response to touch and see.
To share cries, stories, prayers, meals, beds, families.
I long for simplicity, nothing more.
For rhythm and ritual that satisfies and sustains.
For garden sprinklers to run through and a swing on the porch.
For a tiny dwelling that collects memories and not things.