He only does business in Australia

As a child,  all I dreamt of was being abandoned, night after night. I sought solace in insects and stuffed animals. A no-fly zone where I didn’t have to listen to anyone or what they happened to think was important.

What was the point?

It’s hard being an immigrant and not belonging. It never quite leaves you, no matter if you’ve lost the accent and pal around with the guys. It’s always eating away at you. Reminding you that you’re not who they think you are. In fact, you’re not who you think you are. You’re not quite sure.

I think it’s different now. You don’t have to leave. Or, if you do leave you can just visit. You don’t have to stay. So you get to keep your first self.

 I keep searching and I don’t know what I am looking for anymore. I just wait to see what turns up and hope for the best. Usually, I meet men- young and old- who are also searching. Often, it’s on a plane, but it’s happened on a beach or in a restaurant. It’s usually more meaningful on a plane because of the captive quality of the experience. Neither can escape until the plane lands.  More secrets are revealed. Kisses are exchanged, as well as email addresses.

I am not an immigrant, just the daughter of one. It seems so 20^th century and I feel so 19^th century. I am here and there simultaneously, not really knowing where I belong.  I keep moving, searching for a way out. 

But then my dreams devolve. Releasing me and maybe those I carry with me. My guts spill out.  Expelled. They contain blood and vibrant tissue, as well as what looks like fish bones- life and death- my parents skeletal remains wrapped in my living flesh.  Telling me that it is unlikely to ever break free. Not even in my dreams.

I was wrong

It can always get worse. You can forget that your beloved is dead and wonder where she lives now.  You don't dare to ask why she isn't living with you, but you allow yourself to ask if she lives in an apartment. Is it close? Could you visit? You don't ask why she doesn't try to contact you. In fact, you no longer know about the why of anything. There is no why. You don't know if you are alive or dead, and frankly, it doesn't make a difference. Can it really get worse?

At the intersection of lack of belief and no memory, there are no winners. His jacket has seen better days, but he sports a silver rose in his lapel. It  retains a faint scent that bears a resemblance to his beloved.  He claims to remember her.  He claims to remember us. But, he only knows us by our numbers. One. Two. Three. Four.  Reduced to the order in which we arrived. Right or wrong.

The unexpected grief

One grief disappears and another makes its entrance. I thought grief was a package deal. Cascading into a vessel with a volume that varied depending on the day. But no. Of course not. Chinks in the facade. Everything penetrable.

We keep looking up, but it sneaks up from behind. Or sideways. It is never in disguise. Grief engulfs. Swallows you up whole. But it doesn't spit you out. Oh, no.  It chews and chews. Slowly. Savoring the melancholy. The fear.

In this moment, I fall. There is no time to stake my territory. Grief forces a crash landing. If I am lucky, I will recognize some of the pieces beside me, and over time, learn how to put them together again.