My country. My real country, so alive and filled with all of the minute details of life. A river that starts with a trickle and ends with the sea.
As a toddler, my country was nothing. I knew only the things I could touch, a spoon, a toy, the ground—separate puzzle pieces with no whole.
As a boy, fairness emerged, right and wrong, a glue to bind all the parts. Letting me know the world extended beyond the end of my fingers.
As a man, hope and delusion arrived. My country, what I wanted it to be and not what it was. It is not me, but it is.
As a senior, truth and sadness prevail. I see my delusion clearly and wish I had done more to transform fantasy into reality. Too late, I spill into the sea.
