To my children: It pains me to know you’re hurting farther than my arms can reach. That I am unable to protect you with the entire span of the Pacific between us, that no number of emails or texts or FaceTime minutes can bandage the bruises she hammers into your skin

To my children: It pains me to know you’re hurting farther than my arms can reach, that I am unable to protect you with the entire span of the Pacific between us, that no number of emails or texts or FaceTime minutes can bandage the bruises she hammers into your skin.

There are days I think of you until the expression on my face is a postcard she will not let you read: I wish you were here, I wish you were here, I wish you were here.

I keep three clocks set to your timezone as reminders that my 2ams are your almost midays, that while the moon wanes in the sky you are under the sun someplace else feeding breadcrumbs to birds in a park wishing for wings of your own and I imagine that for a fraction of a moment, you’re not so afraid. Fly home to me.

Where the hands that hold you will tremble with passion not violence, where you will not be a possession but the universe I inhabit. Fly home to me.