When I was four
a butterfly landed on my hand while I was
in a sandbox shaped like a turtle wearing
a black and white polka dotted bathing suit.
It just sat there
like the only thing that mattered
in this world was a turtle shaped sandbox and my hand.
My hand.
The first time you held my hand
I was sweaty and my hand was sweaty
and I kept trying to make that romantic but it was just weird.
That was the only butterfly that ever sat on my hand.
Eventually it left and when you left I felt
lost.
Like I was that butterfly leaving my own hand because the four year old
was going inside and I had to pick a new home that wasn\'t
home at all.
I often wonder if that butterfly ever went back to that spot
where it once sat
and if it felt as sad as I do - Did.
Did.
I use past tense because maybe if I say it enough
it will become true.
And then you came back.
To the sandbox,
to my hand.
And I was still sweaty
and my hand was still sweaty
and it was still weird, but it was home.
And suddenly I knew what home was
and it had nothing to do with sandboxes,
or butterflies,
or sweaty hands.