We are in transit, forever walking between courtesies, forever skirting the edges of our discomfort. You stop to take a breath, to tie your shoe. I urge you on. Look, I say. Home is over the next ridge. No, you say. Home is in our hands.
This microstory borrows a line from the poem she knows sacrifice so well by Australian Indigenous poet Dakota Feirer.
Christine Hanolsy 
This is really brilliant truth: walking between courtesies, forever skirting the edges of our discomfort
It reads like an age-old still-love-you-you-mule type of light arguement.
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