she carries the bones of my ancestors

she is most of what i think about these days. she is my brother and my two nieces and my two nephews.

she holds my mother. she holds my father. she holds my best friends. she hold my grandmothers house and bones. and her grandmothers also. 

she hold my dreams. 

i am not sorry for her anymore, time and distance and perspective has faded my anger and resentment. 

 i am her. 

i can no longer blame us for trying our best, imperfectly. 

i am her failures and successes, i am her mistake, i am her shame and beauty. 

the melody of her mountain breeze in July is my breath. the lakes kissing Michigan's peninsulas are my blood and lymph. the wild ones who soar and gallop and climb and swim are my heart. 

the grey winter midwest skies and bright blue desert summer heavens are my eyes.

my feet are the superior lake stones, the great sand dunes and the grassy plains, the red clay of Georgia and the flat California beaches. 

the autumn maple leaves, the Spanish moss draped along Florida Oaks, the fluttering leaves of Colorado Aspen, my hair. 

i am her.

i hold the bones. 

she taught me to love this earth with May dandelions and July weeping willow and October sassafras and January white pine.  

April fawns and September does, December eagles and March robins gifted me time. 

i like to dream of us holding each other again.

together at last.