I don’t think I will find the words.

Sitting cross-legged with my head swung back, staring at the tree leaves trembling to the rising beat in the last rays of the setting sun. Do you call that a meditation?

Walking along the shallow brook. “Your ancestors are walking behind you.” I can almost hear their steps. Two Viras. Both stocky, with broad round faces, high cheekbones, clear eyes, strong hands, thick calves. Beautiful, strong like the earth. Slavic women, made of the most fertile soil on Earth. Everywhere I walk, they walk behind me. “You can lean on your ancestors. How does it make you feel?” Less than alone. The opposite of alone. I have heard this message twice in the past two days. What are you saying, ancestors?

I turn right, I cross the bridge, then, on the other side the song begins, unbidden, catches me unaware. У мене немає дому. I start crying, harder and harder, trying to loosen the tight knot of grief, rage and desperate longing in my throat. I am trying not to sob, not to attract attention. If someone asks me, I would not be able to explain. I am crying for my lost home. For my people. I am crying to let go, to free myself from the things I will never be free of. Обійми мене. I am raising the volume all the way up, until my ears hurt. The voices of my youth are screaming. So much bass in their guitars, so much pathos in their vocals, the generation that never stopped hurting.

I guess I found the words, after all.