The longing comes in the evenings when the day has quieted down. It's a slight pressure in the diaphragm, a gentle pressing in the throat. A question I don't know the answer to. Don't want to think about. In Lapland when they want to know where you are from, they ask "Where are you away from?"
I am away from this. From the gentle blue Baltic. From the terns that dart in and out of the sky. From the gray bedrock that still remembers the ice age. From the lichen smell and the buzz of the bugs and the salty wild sorrel. From the gentle thumping of the tug boat as the night sets in and the glow worms light up in the tall, thin grass. From the still warm granite, like a living thing, with a heartbeat as I press against it. From a midnight swim in the water so cool so soft so gently salted, like tears. Exactly like tears.
From mom and dad whose tangles and wounds and eyes and lives lived in the slanted yellow northern light made me like the water and rocks and trees made me. Who are away from me. As much as I am away from them.