Before my long travel, I pack my suitcases, stuff them with some sand from our land, some scent from my mother’s kitchen and sounds of birds in the morning.

And in my pockets, I put the four directions. My hands are the compass.

At the airport, I beg the officer not to open the suitcases and, if needed, to touch my clothes gently. Otherwise, I would be standing on a worn-out map.

I would be weightless in the air.