When are you coming home? When will I see you?
No se mañana … no se del día después no se.
I don’t know. I don’t know about tomorrow nor overmorrow, the day after. I don’t know.
I don’t know nor understand the habitual guilt that drudges along near the beginning or middle of a visit home.
No entiendo el remordimiento que casualmente acompaña cada cena, salida, o visita.
Not anymore, I’m worn.
Tú, ven. Tú visita.
You explore, you endure.
Pulling from all of my Meredith’s I ask you pick me choose me, and love me (her and I) first.
Writing about family is never not tricky: especially in terms of displacement and feelings if estrangement.
I want to hear other, similar stories to mine. I need to laugh about this.