I’m home. It’s been a week since I was last here. The last time was marked by a profound expression in my little sister’s face when, upon coming home from school, she found me in the room, in front of the mirror, indiscriminately cutting off my hair with a pair of scissors I had found in one of my old purses. She must have thought me crazy with the way she asked: “Ate… are you– alright?”
And I couldn’t help but laugh. Such a comic little girl. I must have laughed too appreciatively, for she seemed to have given me an even more concerned look.
But really, I was alright. Maybe it was just the irony of the scene, or better yet, the cycle of homing that transpired that afternoon: she comes home, finds me home after being severed from home for days, however finds me engaged in an act of severing as well, using a pair of scissors I found where? At home.
My hair will grow back. The way I believe most severed things do. Severed selves, severed backbones, severed perception. Nomadic feet are free, they manage to grace old paths without knowing. And how often, you may ask? I will answer most confidently: I do not know.