My abuelita told me a story
where a trail of breadcrumbs led a brother and sister back home.
You left a trail of yourself in the form of memories
that I’m afraid to follow
in case you might end up being home
because I gave the key back
and even though you keep one under the mat,
I’d never show my face near your house again.
There’s a map of how to get around
the only problem is
(I think I lost it some time in June)
the commute is a lot longer
and I fell into the habit
of using you as navigation.
My father taught me
how to use the sky to know
which direction I was going in
and to estimate the time.
'You’ll never be lost
if you just let the world tell you where you’re going, ”
he told me once.
What happens when you get bonked on the head
and the dizziness mixes up east and west
and tells you the wrong hour, switching AM and PM?
This is where the sidewalk ends,
where the breadcrumbs fall short,
and I am too far from you (and everyone) to call for help.
This is where I make my path and build
a home of my own.
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