When I went to the shore near my home on Earth, I stood on the beach and listened to the lap of waves.
I held a stone in my fist, smoothed by waves then carried to the sand. It fit in my hand as if it were part of me.
I didn’t look for a boat or raft.
Not when I was a vessel for the woman who couldn’t navigate her way.
Who as a girl got trapped in the undertow, gulped salt water, thought it might be easier to become fish or stingray. Who wanted to smash every buoy in the ocean.
Who later made a quiet life that no one could enter. Barriers at the door, the phone, the computer.
A vessel seeks a path or makes one.
I stand on a planet distant from Earth. Stones under my feet that I’ll harvest. Soil that I’ll measure into tubes.
Not far from me, the clang of metal arms. Whirr of small motors as robots move from location to location.
Before I landed, I was a woman who could not help who she was. I tried to change her by fighting mood after complex mood.
I have not said what person I have become. I could throw a stone into the distance. I would.