at the screen in the house where I’ve almost always lived I pour my hours into something that means nothing once the sun disappears. important people use big words and I listen and sometimes find the right words to say in response. the cat chases glimpses of sun through the windows and sleeps til the shadows pass with the day, forcing him to seek refuge in some other shred of sun. between meetings I hang laundry on the line on which I used to swing before I could reach it without the shoulders of my older brother. I sleep and I breathe in the house I was raised whilst I jump to the tune of the hymns of the new church. I am home but not all there at once. my days are sold and I am one of many bowing to the contract.
at the end of the day I sigh and complain about petty emails and tasks I don’t want to face tomorrow. the new friend living in our spare room lends a sympathetic ear and offers me a slice of basque cheesecake. locked out of his homeland by a war he would be forced to fight if he returned, he sits on the couch and finds new ways to make me laugh. far from the people he loves and a home he may never see again, he greets my presence with joy and empathy. not once has he complained about the existential dilemma that keeps him limping through the liminal. I think of my own plastic problems and I am embarrassed. through his eyes I see my own short sightedness of the privilege into which I wake each day. I am ashamed. we eat at the same table and laugh at the same jokes. he knows nightmares I could only ever live in dreams.
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