Maybe its the moon, or memories of a loved river. Maybe its the winos sipping from paper bags, that I watched through car windows on dusty Sunday mornings, as my father dutifully drove us to church. The Church, where the priest spoke words I couldn’t understand and nuns yanked my ears to make sure I did.
Or maybe it was bright days at the beach, with my mom and siblings, when sunshine seeped into my pores and seawater flowed through my veins. Might be my grandma’s smoky October lullabies, mingling with magnolia blossoms and rosy morning light, filtered through backwaters of distant memories.
Maybe its the shifting shores of our lives, remnants of things that we count on as true.
Maybe its the long sleepless nights of unfulfilled dreams when the colors of shadows take on new meaning, and all who are gone dance to soundless music around my heart. Maybe its the sound of loving voices I can’t recall that haunt me.
Maybe its only fading hymns I hear in the dry rustle of palms, calling me home.