A year ago, in our kitchen, I looked up at my wife and drunkenly said, I think I’m trans. I had never said the words out loud. I didn’t know how else to unburden myself from the weight they carried in my head so I tumbled them out like rocks into her hands. She knew what to do with them as much as I did, and so they continued to tumble, awkwardly, clatteringly. Eventually, I cut my hair. I borrowed her clothes, her men’s clothes. And it felt good, it felt complete, it felt like coming home.
