Home

by Shannel Garcia

Transitions of seasons always called to my child heart
gravity pulling me home
across deserts and canyons
rest stops playing in red sand I loved to bury my hands in.

Air got cooler and lighter traveling North and East
like I’d spent months struggling to breathe
spotting the spiky outline of the rock while fighting sleep
was like a warm blanket coaxing me to dream.

Down a dirt road so familiar even in sleep
like Braille, my body could read every bump and dip
whispered greetings, hushed coos
cradling my head on a shoulder and held against a familiar hip.

I could leave this land forever, go beyond its four mountains
gravity pulling me home
I’d never feel safe until I saw that spiky rock
buried my fingers in red sand
breathed in the air of my childhood
I was born here.

My mother buried my placenta in my Grandmother’s yard
beneath the apricot tree that’s no longer there
a Rez kid from two ends of the nation
going home with the change of the seasons.