Nomadic Life

It’s a nomadic life no matter how you nest, no matter how you think you’ve nested.

Still, you hunt for something called home, voluntarily or involuntarily secession is inevitable.

Then, it’s a nomadic life.

It’s rural, urban, redneck, and reggaeton, and searching for middle ground is futile but not hopeless, there is always hope, and hope never disappoints – this is beyond dispute.

It is a nomadic life, hurting more deeply and cutting more sharply than rationally acceptable, in a place where eyes fail and hands recoil and shoes drop from feet unaware.

Like sisters who can’t help but laugh when they look at each other or brothers who still must rough-house after they have passed the age of decorum.

June 3, 2007, Boston

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