Milky Way

The soft stick of white chalk smudges the lines on my palm.

Now the readings of my future will be deciphered from the traces of ivory dust.

With a confident grasp, I draw the milky path of my hopscotch game with a limestone.

Youth still throbbing in my chest. All my pride is condoned.

I hop and balance and in the flight, my understanding is still unsown.

My home, now so gray, is full of nimble fish meters below a churning sea.

One truth I could not foresee.

Both my feet touch the ground but I can’t stick around.

Behind me is Aleppo, Alexandria, and Arabia.

A small leap to the left. Then I twist, jerk and lose a sandal.

Yellow plastic bags of belongings are tied closely to my reddened ankle.

They bobbed against the brown murky water and now their soiled insides are dismantled.

Young colorful lies, temporary golden trophies, and fragile purple toys.

Once the boast of my mouth,

are now all disrobed on top of the pearly path I have drawn.

One more jump and I overstep.

I fall outside the last neat white square I have known.

But where do I go after the last border?

I am an artless youth who have only treaded the short distance that ten squares could afford.

For this reason I distrust myself. For this reason I do not think I am special or important.

I craved the whiteness of innocent play but this game of hopscotch was anything but pale.

Then a woman comes to me dressed in bold burgundy.

We exchange a long dark gaze more eloquent than tears.

I recognize her frank features. She is my mirror but with wrinkles.

I finally dare to look back at the path behind me now that her courage is with me.

The milky way had brown puddles, yellow specks of plastic.

A glistening ball that broke off from its trophy.

The tiny arm of a purple doll dress stuck underneath a worn out pink sandal.

This canvas is my identity. And this self-assured woman is my future.

Every crease in her palm is proudly colored on top of the old layers of creamy dust.

Colors make us all delusional.

The same hues are mercurial based on the light that shine on them.

Our identities are the same as they forever mature and interact within us.

I finally learned to sow the seeds of my past and wait for growth with trust.

Oh, how the earth cracks and strains to bring a colorful flower to a bloom.