0s and 1s were our whispers of commitment, our loving embraces hovering over an enter key
ready to cross the ocean breathing between us. For 16 months we defied time zones and distance,
the fact it was all temporary the answer to our desolation, the fuel to our lengthy drive.
San Francisco’s hills had proved too steep to climb was the mock our lack of papers gave voice to,
but Under Grandma and Grandpa Moose’s roof the wait expanded, funds amassing for the move,
and every morning as the sun said hello to the world I stretched my jaw for a new tongue and land.
There among the wet blanket of summer would be our new journey, cicadas cheering us along,
the mountains and valleys of Oregon sad for our going but happy for our finding a home together.
Grandpa Moose cried for the first time in years the day our wait was to end, the ocean to surrender,
but he shook my hand for only the third time I could recall, in his eyes the pride of a father.
Across the Pacific my life waited the last days of those 16 months, but there saying their goodbyes
was the family knowing my need to leave, my drive to go, and my determination to never return the same.