She is a seed still attached to the shaft. She is growing and learning how to be. Waiting, watching us weather the storms. One day in the wind she will be scattered. Our own fates set, sealed. Hers inexplicably yet inextricably bound up in emotion and experience woven by something eternal. Where will she land and into what will her roots sink? Forced to drink deeply, unable fly, unable to drift on endlessly, her heart searches for a home. Sifted, hungry, "How fertile is the ground where my mother roams?" Her hoarse moan mom hears, "There are rooms a plenty here."
