“We've only got one left” came the needlessly concerned warning. “Well then, give it to me” I said with a smile. The barman handed the drink to me with a friendly laugh. I sat down at a table and looked over the sea.
The deep blue water mirrored the azure sky only to turn turquoise as the sea’s bedrock gave way to the sandy shore. A 17th century fort watched me sternly from the other side of the bay.
All of this seemed so mundane, so helplessly quaint and inadequate when I was little. Perhaps everyone should move away from home, live as far away as possible for as long as they could stand, just to be able to fall in love with where they came from.
“Welcome home” the wind around my ankles seemed to say. The northern breeze sent a chill up my spine, I had underdressed, having been over-enthusiastic about the warm sunny weather - it is still early May after all. The beaches all yet empty.
“But it’s not so cold. Not nearly cold enough”, I said to my drink. Another gust of wind confirmed; it was very pleasant outside. Then why the chill? Was it what the wind had said? Those words, like those from a former lover. Cold and hopeful, pleading not welcoming. Stating a desire, not a fact.
No, I was not home. I was on holiday where I used to call home. To make here home again would be to start over in a foreign land. I am a foreigner now. Not here, but everywhere.
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| Maybe this is why I keep complaining about the weather |
