My Roots by Isha Mital
Why do you ask about
my roots? What do I tell
you? What am I supposed
to say, anyway? You tell
me what it means to
have roots, for I have none.
I’ve seen trees have
roots. Yes, plants do. I
would have been able to
tell had I been a plant,
too. But I am not. Am I? I
am a human, some limbs,
but no roots. Nothing binds
me to a state or a place,
a person, even. It is, in fact,
a choice. I can choose to
float like a cloud or, maybe,
like a kite, red against the
blue of the sky. Hum like a
bird or swim like a fish. But
I choose only to be.
Unremarkable. Ordinary.
Just me. I don’t want to
be a kite, I need not be. Or
a mushroom growing by
the stream. Not even one
of the four winds, nor a tree
with thick, ancient roots, or
a star twinkling at night. I
don’t want to be like anything,
limiting myself within
the confines of another being.
I am free and it suffices me
to just be.
