The inbetween place

My little one of the inbetween places, this is your African home. The jumbled colourful city where you were born and the red dirt where you took your first steps. The ibises you watched as a baby under acacia trees, the termite wings you clenched in tiny fingers. You are a child of the Great Rift Valley, of hikes up volcanoes and snacktime amidst the zebras. These are the colours, the faces, the rains, and the smells of your Kenyan childhood, seeping into your soul, sparkling in your eyes.
But you are also a child of a land far away. Of prairies covered in snow and a sky as blue as forever. You come from a people who are rugged and strong, from farmers clearing frozen land and Grandmas stirring pots of borscht. Your blood runs like the rivers of the north, the crystal lakes of my childhood and the endless yellow fields of childhoods before me.
You are a child of here and of there. Of north and of south. Of today’s Kenyan sun and yesterday’s Canadian moon. The earth and the years have conspired to create for you this moment. This space for you to dance and breathe, to put down roots and to sail in the wind, my little one of this beautiful inbetween place.

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