"You always do this funny sigh" (my daughter knows me well), "like you're inhaling the very leaves from every single tree”. Soul-nurturing osmosis of life-gifting symbiosis, all-consuming comfort through my entire being.
As I stand here mothered, embraced by my kin, breathing dendrophiliac dopamine, I begin to root, to belong, to hear the community of my
elusive ancestry through Earth's alluring song.
Raised rootless The Tumbleweed Girl,
a waif with mycelium veins, singing sorrowful cords as mud pies were forged in torrential rain.
She offered the nutrition of family.
Willow psithurism awoke a fresh world that made sense, beyond splintering pretence of blood and meaning, my small world gleaning context of a family tree.
I am safe, I am nurtured, I am protected, and loved.
There can be no rationale for the intense silent howling of this peace.
I am home.
Four families,
three names,
eighteen buildings,
so much change,
but finally
I
am
home.
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