The Ordinary is What Was Extraordinary

the pilgrimage inward is never the same as the voyage back.
everything looks different and the journey seems truncated.
planning to be prepared for the unexpected, itself a contradiction,
is an exercise in trust, for once the gate is open the waters rush in
and anything-can-happen-day reaches a new maturity.

respecting the past, honoring the dead, even as I know
their deaths were brutal and unacceptable, is a delicate balance
of heart and mind. in a history of such monumental proportion
does a child here or there, a baby, teen, wife, baker or an elder

claim more tears than any other? my own aunt, uncle, and grandparents
remain lines in handwritten letters, rarely a photo, barely a story.
does piecing together fragments make their ordinary story any more
extraordinary? will witnessing their possible grave site generate closure?

the road not taken, may be ordinary, but the destination can be extraordinary.