My feet had lost the feeling of ground underneath them, the constant digging in of sharp rocks and hidden stones
I forget what people are like, their little frailties and habits, the beautiful and ugly things they do.
I am hidden here, there is a plate glass window and my breath is fogging it beyond repair.
Final steps have no place here, and I find myself wondering why final moments keep coming in front of my eyes…the unwished-for images that are some kind of violation to admit.
I wonder when my capacity for chocolate chip cookies turned into sunlit afternoons, fire-warmed snowed-in evenings, and serving Persian tea on a Persian carpet in a home in any continent in the world (you pick). When did home become such a lost word?
Today I finally remembered a piece of home (did you know that I’d forgotten?). It is freshly cut grass with trees overhead and the faint hum of suburban life.
Or the sounds of ambulances for 4 hospitals mingled with music from everywhere, and the possibility of eating food from 15 different countries any time I want.
Or limestone buildings with grandmothers on balconies, young men in jeans and American t-shirts and the sea behind it all.
I can’t decide anymore.