hands. large, semi-rough hands that tell a story just as much as his eyes will. and warmth- warmth that emits from his hands when he so gently places them upon my hips. lakes, rivers. streams, and my truth- the sea; bodies of water i can actually swim in and lay by. a small house with a fireplace and white walls; a backyard with gardenia's, orange blossoms, and a space for my yoga mat and deepest intentions. mountains- a trail that knows my soles and i know it's curves and bends. a latte machine on our counter because it's about the smallest gestures and rituals; and with that, a record player in the corner by the shelves housing the stories of the hundreds of writers who have lived before me. my great-grandfather's glass negatives on the windowsill, the morning light emanating through them, making my bloodline tangible.  homemade pizzas and a little too much wine.

this is a prayer that echos in my heart. 

*that photo above was found on pinterest. but, holy cow, does it resemble my mother. uncannily. the photos of her in the waters of Brazil, mountains in the background, her open-mouthed smile bursting, always made me feel closer to her.