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I move.
I move, and I walk, and I run.
But mostly, I move—
quietly, through bridges and lanes,
as the wind follows.
I move with the sound of the wind,
with the box of chocolates I carried with her,
roaming through school buildings,
class by class, on her special day.
I move with my grandmother’s voice,
telling stories of Devi rising from the water,
turning a woodcutter into an alchemist.
And while I move,
I see trees that reside in the grasslands
on my train rides.
How do they stand so still?
So still, so still, for life?
Sometimes, it gets heavy,
and I weigh like a neutron star.
But other times, a feather.
Light.
Like stardust.
Like the petals of a dandelion.
That’s what makes it easier for me to move.