Trisha Mitra

Every day, my community makes me order my hashbrowns covered, chunked, peppered, and smothered in the comfort of a slow morning. The sugar in my sweet tea is poured directly from the hearts of my neighbors. They gift me peach trees that bear no fruit but taught me patience. They mend and spread my lemon pepper wings so that I may soar among their aeroplanes. They lead me through tiny doors I could have sworn I was never meant to open. They add loops to the beltline of my jeans as mile markers of gained knowledge and experience. They quench my thirst for belonging as I take sips alongside polar bears year-round. They tend to my creative expression so that I may flourish like a botanical garden. They shepherd me to oakland for peace and rest, not timber. They drown my body in an oasis meant for beluga whales, but I find I breathe better down here than in the humid summer air. They train my ears with hip-hop and jazz, so that I may know passion intimately well. They challenge me to paint tunnels instead of waiting for light at the end of them. They made “brave” plural because we all speak up when one of us suffers. They pick me up at the station where I may ride MARTA by myself, but I am never ever alone.