The other half of me lives across the world. The roots of mama and baba, agong and apo, cling to the rocks of a red clay soil, While their meristems were supplanted, relegated to the cool nectar of Coca-Cola.
As I dig my forehead into the frost-bitten plane window, I imagine lines convalescing upon the clouds. A languorous celestial line of brown knap-sack peasants clamoring for the sun. Of dreaming academics, imperially slim. Of my own family, steps lined with gold, struggling against weighty dreams. All tripping over calloused feet to drink a sweeter water. Their eyes fixated on edges, the reprieve comes only to mindlessly sip some bitter herb tea.
So earnest, so keen, thoughts so clean upon arriving, they forget — water flows in only to flow out.