Doll

A tagged pink carpet draped over the cracked, blistered paint of the front steps.

Moss clung so tight to the roof that you’d need a push broom to remove it.

I’ve run so few steps since returning that my calves feel strung tight as harp strings.

The music blasts in my ears as I let the swell of emotions carry me forward. In two months I’ll have been stateside for a year.

There’s something about that that doesn’t sound right. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe time has swirled in a way where I’m lost in the aspirated bubbles that float on the surface.

I stepped into the night and looked down a dark sidewalk. A coyote stood like smoke just out of reach from the street lights.

When I relax into being— I can hear the notes of some celestial song playing. A primordial ballad that crosses the space between fear and hope. There’s a jello-like ripple to actions you barely remember. The sepia-toned memories of a bygone version of yourself. One that’s been consumed by the larger matryoshka doll that your present self is.