Was there ever an essential condition to us? We always called each other essentially a family, we were conditioned to be unconditional.
Dance and defend, daring to delve past our deference for each other, our irritations, denials, and all absolutes, were dealt face down.
We became as reliant as the ocean to the sky, as vital as the heat at the centre of the earth to the thin stem threading together green leaves.
Arguments always shattered every wall we raised, and we shouted them down by dousing them in wine and setting them alight.
Breezes swept seabirds onto our branches, snatched the leaves with seasonal winds and gouged tiny furrows in the soil.
All the while, we offered balms to sooth our angsts, and heaved each other from the ground holding broken bodies upright, when we couldn’t stand.
Every time we smashed mirrors with our clenched teeth or bit down hard on each other’s feelings we shrunk the space between ourselves.
Whenever we faltered in our dedication to our cause, we covered up our scars, our flawed skin, and understood ever deeply what we meant.
The nutrients we root down into, feed us, allow sunlight to bloom upon us. And as every flower bloomed to blossom, we flicked pollen at each other just to be annoying.
It seems talking was always what united us, supported us, crutches to lean upon were each other. That essential condition then, was always language. Was always us,
and our own language.
Book of Pye 