What is exile? An accident caused by the circumnavigation of a few boats. A novel being written simultaneously in the past and present. A desire for spices and tobacco finding a pathway through undiscovered dimensions of commerce, culture, and greed.
Exile is the deep desire to find ourselves back home, away from this new land. Here, we’ve built a castle, rejecting tragedy and circumstance, fortifying a moat so we can never be hurt again—yet, on this map of our heart, there lies a mark of a destination far away, everlonging, ever forlorn for days past.
This mark grows bigger by the day. This mark, it dilates and recalls a song from long ago as she grabs me by the shoulder.
“Do you remember those mornings when we watched the sunrise by the lake? It was before the buildings had taken over, before our land had become ravaged by opportunists and pity. We had pride, and we knew our worth. I miss those mornings, and the sighs we breathed in awe—and I miss those songbirds that gave us hope.”
When I close my eyes, I remember. It warms me briefly before all tenderness is lost in lamenting the days unlived and memories uncreated.
So, I ask again: What is exile?
The cumulative histories of denial, of truths unformed. Of reconciliation left at bay as outsiders spun their fables, of children grieved by parents, and parents grieving the time they’ll outlive their children. Of singular decisions cascading into damned eternity, turning tomorrows into purgatory. Of continents and oceans named and renamed until they become unrecognizable.
Am I in exile? Is this exile?
In the present, her hands give me direction—with her words cutting truths I didn’t want to acknowledge. As she holds me tight, I place my feet firmly on this land, now knowing there is no old nor new anymore—just now and here.
Yet, the longing remains.
A generation lapses as the sun rises, and the mark in our heart continues to pulse day by day; its vigor now given to the future she and I bore. Though their tiny fingers only know one land, our hope is that they’ll soon yearn for another—a land where providence has been reclaimed on our own terms, with the canvas finally free of the past as a burden on the future.