Ankyra Sound 'Cause my dad's office door's always closed but I stopped knocking

Writes you a poem instead of a post

It was the smell of home on the wind;
And home was a word laden with salt.
A word that stung against the cut of memories
Of fear, the sour flavor of fate
Sticking behind your teeth and in the back of your throat, that constant reminder
That there are some things the waves can never wash away.

And home was a term stolen from stories and daydreams;
Carefully crafted, a patchwork of if I ever, and one day we'll,
Until one day came, and with it a knowing
That you never really knew what home felt like, that peace was a concept confined
To the aftermath, when the stars have all fallen, and you know that the only light you'll ever have is what you steal from the sky.

In the stolen light she danced; fluttered with the wind as if caught by it, bound to it. But she was bound to nothing and no one, free in this moment and forgotten by the world. She might have stayed that way forever, had the winds not brought her a gift.
Everett.
She stilled even as the water flowed around her, rushing in, filling all the spaces until she could no longer separate herself from the sea. The force of it nearly swept her away. Somehow she kept her footing, and as the wave receded she went to him. Everett, She breathed, whether he heard her or not over the din of the sea. Louder, then: Everett!
And then she was running, splashing through the water on a mission to embrace the brother she'd left behind.
Everett! She laughed, and hugged him, and started to cry.