She welcomed me at a chilly doorstep.
I was weary and luminous with enervation.
Leaving home for her suggested a joke.
Her breathes were cold over my shoulder when she said
“This could be Home, you know”
I nodded slowly, and in a second
The wind pulled me to a sickly bed.
Every morning greeted me with heavy lungs, shortened breathes.
Pain- stricken, I wrote to her “MA, I am learning to breathe”
And wrote me a song with frozen lyrics.
I chewed on them with courage, defiance and then, regret.
“Give me a Dictionary” my frail attempt to talk
“To find a synonym for Home”
She brought a map instead, and I spat at it acidly.
I sank into my cold bed to mourn.
Till she let visitors in
To fan the warmth in me.
I fell into their darkly beauty and resonating accent.
Picked funny verses from their songs and moved my legs to learn their steps.
She was kinder now “Can I make these stories an Art on your skin?”
“No” and I turned over.
Her name is Jos.
And this story continues…