For a few desperate moments, I was an eaglet, safe in the dark beneath their wings. What am I, that I cling to the nest, even as my lungs burn to taste the air above the peaks?
I am young. Time will one day see me clutching my own child in my arms, crying into her hair. Until then, I am building my own nest. And the first twigs have been found not in some distant land, but have been given to me from home. They are the tears that say I love you, and so I let you go.