The Journey by Tracie Bernardi

Dear Sky– I confess to you that I remember very little of what lies beyond this present garden of concrete and stone. But I do remember the transition from here to there. I was ripped from the soils of freedom and familiarity. There was nothing tender in the way I was transported—in a cold and cracked vessel that carried many before and many after. I closed my eyes as I was replanted—all I wanted was to shrivel and die. In the eyes of those who put me here, I was not a blooming flower in the prime of my life; my value was laughable—just another weed in society—thrown away like children skipping stones on a lake although it did not feel like that.

Sky, can you summon your clouds to grace me with a shower—I am thirsty and dry. Nourish and sustain me because I have been snatched from my roots, plucked from my stability, and trying to find a way to ground myself in the earth and continue blossoming.