i have always been a migrator, itinerant, the cuckoo waiting for you to leave your nest so that i can visit, be at home, and leave something of myself behind. this is what the 21st century has taught me: sometimes leaving a space better than you found it means embodying armageddon. i am a willing hurricane.

no one ever warns you that the grace of a hot mug of coffee handed to you on a winter morning will be what saves you. no one told me that the insurance policy i'd sign on my partnership would be written in kitchen soap, backyard mud, and milk from the corner store. 

all the details i have learned to notice, becoming more mindful, becoming more grateful, seeing the splendor of my ordinary life, are touched by you. the way the streetlight fans across my bedroom, coasting over your rising and falling breaths. the pile of bills and coupons and high interest rate credit card offers in the mailbox addressed to two names. you are my kettle always full, my bookshelf never empty, my needs always heard, my heart always happy. my home is a place that follows your feet.