I’ve placed my feet on the ground. Body between the sun and earth.
My shadow registers my trace. This must be proof, must be certification.
A Document. In motion.
A Record. Recording.
These walks are authorized. What else do you need to know?
The cardamom pod and cumin seed are in the cupboard. Blend the Za’atar with olive oil and spread it on the bread; sometimes this is done at the table, other times it is rubbed on the bread rounds which are then baked. Thick sated food experts bite in, knowing the taste of an orange just as well as you.
Just like they came before, I will build my house, my home.
Bricks made of memory. Windows of longing.
Walls are invisible, that is why they cannot be broken.
I will lay the ground and place the tile upon it
Dense bushes surround our house. We keep them trimmed and proper like our neighbors. Only, our land must be made of something different. Roots are crowding the foundation. They stretch, wind, bind. They reach towards our throats. Branches grow thick, turning the light from our windows into shadows of paralleling lines. The room transforms.
I will go to the bedroom to ensure the boxes are packed, the ones that have been there for years.