SUNDAY

One Sunday morning, I split in two.
My mother barely noticed, until the other half of me started writing home. That's when Mom got worried. My other half was asking for money, and lots of it.
My other half built a boat. It set off from the California coast, and gives no mind to coming back to shore. It likes the water. It sails by the constellations. It never took a lesson, and never knew a sailor. It does what it does, and it does it surprisingly well.
"On the water," it writes me in ocean-smeared ink, "I know no troubles. No evils. No sadness. I am happy. But I miss you."
And it is hungry. That is why it writes home. It needs money for food. It asks for a lot. My mother questions the amount.
"Why can't you just come back home?" she asks me. "Then you wouldn't have to worry about starving."
"But I am here," I say. "I am not starving. That is not me. That is part of me."
A part of me I need back. Without it, I am lost. So I built a boat of my own. I bought a book on sailing. I packed a cooler full of sandwiches.
"I am ready to find you," I think to myself, about myself.
I set sail, and I am off.