The longing came several times a day, if she was honest about it. Even then, those were just the moments she was aware of. She guessed there was really no break. When she reached for the milk in the fridge, when she threw away the make-up stained cotton ball, when she locked her door as she left her home. . . It was just under the surface of her every thoughtless habit, like a pottery shard unnoticed in the desert under a thin veil of silt. It wouldn’t take much effort to blow the silt away and reveal the broken piece. Its carefully painted lines continuing on another piece nearby.
What did this longing look like? What form would it take? If she collected all the pieces as they surfaced and fit them together, would she recognize the shape? Maybe in noticing all the pieces and putting them together the form revealed would be an answer to her longing. Everything would finally make sense. Her entire history would not be lost because here, look, the answer is a vessel to hold what slaked her thirst.
Some days, the longing spoke of place. A place she felt she belonged. A place that hadn’t been forcibly taken from its indigenous inhabitants, possibly by her own ancestors. She felt the land was in mourning. The earth under her feet had its own longing, tied to the hearts of the ones who had been displaced.
Other days, the longing spoke of purpose. What the hell was she doing here? What was it, really, that she was supposed to offer back to the world? Her life had been a series of steps that felt not-quite-right as she did what she was told, then what she thought was expected of her — always going along with a strange reality that made no sense at all. There was so much to do, so much to unravel, as she worked to find her way.
And then, there were the days when the longing spoke of love. . .
