and when she felt the weight of the backpack
snuggling up against her back,
as it always does, ever so swiftly,
upon each new departure,
but saw no second set of shoes trodding beside her,
a sudden solitude enveloped her.
this time, it was just her,
traveling toward Sweden’s summer,
with the weekly news folded under her arm,
and a cup of steaming coffee in her hand.
it’d been a while
since it’d just been her
out on those unknown paths
of the world.
in that tiny village up north near the sea,
a history of industry and mining warps around the buildings,
and each year, upon the arrival of the dancers,
it transforms into a place of fairy dust and dancing,
for five midsummer weeks.
and this magical adventure,
she’ll lavishly accept
and she’ll dwell and linger and stall
until reality calls yet again
to return home and reassemble.
and all the while she’ll know they belong
and be still in quiet moments
of dusk and perhaps at dawn,
holding this truth ever so lightly
and dearly and humbly as well.