There are stories of my people leaving central Texas, the land of our birth.

In these strange lands, the Earth does not want us, because we are not where we belong.

The Earth shakes and trembles, making us weak and homesick. Crops die in memory of a place where we did not hunger and had no disease. Water turns sloid in an attempt to make us thirsty. Yet, we travel.

Away from the place that we were created to inhabit.

One day, I shall return, but today is not that day.


Though I may cough. Though I may shed tears. I know where my home is. One day, the land will guide me safely back.

There are more stories. Stories hear by a little child, many years ago.

Now I read these stories in a book, where I did not expect to find them. They are from an antiquated people who I fear I shall never know. Stuffed between two hard covers, in numberless leaves of paper. The stories are from a people back in central Texas.

The Earth shakes as water turns solid. The little boy cannot help but wonder what makes the distant land his home. The stories? The people? Or perhaps it is a simple as 'because you were created there, and there was created for you.'