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Remember when we believed a NYC street block was too far? 50th, 51st, 52nd, and so on... well, state boundaries stack those blocks, and now there are thousands, maybe millions, blocking. 
My preschool days taught me how to stack the reds, the blues, and the greens of building blocks but when I would finish, they would crash down like boulders, collapsing into an unstable heap. No sense of order. No sifting through for the parts that you want, discarding my least favorite color, red, or the pressure would crush down upon my hand, holding it down. 
And as of late, the laws keep lecturing me: “stay in place, shelter at home.” But where is my home? Here, in the glimpse of a California suburban sunrise? Can a home be created in a place, or is it a manifestation of anticipation before you make eye contact, the connection of pure blues with ephemeral greens? Will home only be found once a month? Twice a year? 
Across a nation, future plans slip over a waterfall of dreams into a river’s rapid flow. It carries us past those blocks, and disconnects at a right corner turn, and then I realize that the emotional burden of us will only wash me into an enclosed cave, no crevices. With this thought, now I am washed into a shore, reborn into the grass trodden ground, stamped with the imprint of tiny footprints, animal maybe, and our memories. 
Now, the sun sets off of Amsterdam, and each and every block are an honest reminder that a touch, when removed, leaves no physical imprint and honesty might not exist in this life, but we can be reborn and each life lets us decide what home we will return to.

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