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.