You were home.
I saw it in the way you stood.
Relaxed.
At ease. 
It was like you could hear your name being called in this clearing.
I saw it in the way the wind blew around you. You promised me you didn’t have control over the weather, but I could swear the breeze matched your breaths.
And I know it’s silly to think you control the sun, but you wake up and the day starts. You step outside, and the garden comes to life. The flowers see you and unfurl their petals toward the rising light and bask in its soft warmth.
 
I tried to pick a flower from our garden and got a thorn in my thumb for my troubles. My brother always used to tell me that you had to be kind when you plucked one, so that it wouldn’t hurt you.
I always hear you whispering to the flowers. You whisper to the ones with thorns and the ones without. Why do you give so much energy to ones that cannot hurt you? You are safe, yet still apologise when you pull them from the earth. 
Are you scared? Or are you truly so compassionate that even the daisies you gather for the crown on my head deserve soft praise as you turn them into something new and beautiful?
They were beautiful before, of course.
 
The daisies in the clearing are wildflowers that bloom without your tending. You let them stay. The wind that follows you bends them with the grass, and the entire clearing ripples in waves at your feet.
I never thought the grass would make me miss the ocean.
Not that I was ever a strong swimmer. Once my feet could no longer touch the sand, the water would weigh me down. My mother used to call my hair sandy-blond and I think it just wanted to be pulled under the waves to join its namesake. I now only dip my toes in.
​
I know I wouldn’t feel at home there either, but maybe I just want you to experience that too.
Maybe the wind that carries salt to kill your plants, wouldn’t bless you with soft touches. And maybe the sun that burns your feet on the sand, wouldn’t gently kiss your face. Your caring whispers wouldn’t be heard over the waves that crash and spray, and maybe, just maybe, you would know how I feel, back in the meadow that welcomes you.
 
Because you just keep growing and growing and I just
fall
           fall
                       fall.
And I can’t go home, and I want to go home, and maybe I want to feel like this is home, but it doesn’t.
If I had any connection to nature it would only be to vines that would wrap around me and pull me into the earth. The dirt would stain my skin and thorns would prick my hands as I reach for the sky I can no longer touch.
Because while you are blooming, I am just sinking.
 
But you are there, with the breeze that brushes my hair that belongs underwater. You are there, as the clouds break and the sun touches my bleeding hands that claw at the soil grounding me.
You tell me no.
           I am not falling. I am not sinking.
                       You tell me I am taking root.
 
You sit with me. You promise to protect me until I feel safe, and continue even after I do. You remind me to use  soft whispers to pull back the vines and tell me that growing doesn’t need to be feared. 
You say you want this to be our place, and I want that too.
You share with me all your stories of flowers. I take my favourite one from the garden, and I am not pricked. I put it behind your ear, and you fix the crooked crown you placed on my head. And I smile.
​
This is not yet home. But with you here, I think one day it will be.