I wanted to feel a soul and grope the insides of a pottery pot. Recall in exact detail the grains of clay, its mineral composition, and humidity with just my fingertips.
I craved clarity. To messily peel kumquats and juice the innards, seed and all, with my tongue and to bundle hummingbird sage—setting the whiteness aflame, feeling fiery warmth just to watch something burn.
I yearned for wind in my hair. Wanted it to sting, to freeze, to rupture my eyes with ice like bullets flying and when it came time to pass, leave my nose and cheeks reddened with life.
I desired to see. Ascend redstone walls with chalked and calloused hands, and wipe sweat with my shoulder. Peer over a careening edge at a world still sleeping knowing I fought with strength to gaze with great pride at this land, my dominion.
I ached for grief, for its poetry. To lay yellow roses, count fallen petals, and whisper kisses to a tomb’s sentiments and etchings. To be moved by an unmoving rock to do as the wise and the wizened. To live and flourish as brightly as the one who couldn’t.
