Dear Wigleaf,

My hair smells like smoke. My home state is burning. I stayed away too long, and sometimes I think I moved back just in time for the final act. The winds are so hot. I turn around to face the sea and say Mom, Dad? When I was younger, I would call from faraway places, cities that scared them, and say their names into a payphone.

They were survivors. They wanted to be safe. I'm glad they're not here to see how everything has changed, how we can't find the safe place anymore.

I walk the streets and peer into the windows of other people's apartments. I am trying to understand how to build a life.

I keep expecting to see evidence of my childhood, but even when I go up north, I can't find it. It only exists when I write it down.

My family is in one of the many apartments of this city. I can walk there from here. Behind a certain door is my story, waiting for me.

XOXO
jan




- - -

Read Jan's story.

W i g l e a f                11-20-19                                [home]