My mother folds distance
the way oceans fold coastlines —
always taking something back,
always leaving something behind.
She has been arriving
for thirty years.
Still at the threshold.
Still carrying the bags.
There is a photograph
of the house she grew up in.
She keeps it in a drawer, not on the wall.
I asked her why once.
She said: some things you keep
where you can close them.
✦ ✦ ✦
I was born between
two versions of the same word —
the one she brought with her
and the one they gave me here.
They mean the same thing.
They mean completely different things.
In her language, home
is not a place but a direction.
You say it the way you say
north. The way you say
toward.
✦ ✦ ✦
She does not call it loss.
She calls it the price of the ticket.
She calls it what you carry
so other things don't have to be carried.
I am the other things.
I am learning to be
worth the weight.