Like everyone else, I can only step through the gate my mother and father took to enter this world. I must exist in the space their bodies made.
Their walk set my path and determined my streets. I hear their voices in the crunch of the compressed gravel of every footfall—echoes of their stories I lived and never lived.
Where the dust remembers their steps, I wander off until the road narrows, and no clear way forward forces me to double back.
What remains of them clings to me— their names, gestures, their quiet inheritance. I step forward, but the gate never closes behind me.
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