Today, it’s been eight years since I’ve moved from South Africa to Portugal.
I don’t quite know what to make of that number –
such a wobbly figure, and if it falls over, it’s an eternity.
(If made to stand again, it’s an empty hourglass.)
Two small globes, one on top of the other: my world here; my world there.
The O of surprise and the O of sighing that mark a migrant life.
A precarious balance, sliding mercurial balls holding each other in tension.
But holding each other, still.
And so I hold on too,
the ones I love on both sides,
the endless longing,
the story of two rings and two adventurous hearts
kept and woven into 8’s cross-armed embrace.