sea change
This morning I sent my girl off to London once more. She's getting better at the goodbyes - more hope, fewer tears. Thus the injustice of absence slowly works its way into law. It's a testament to us that we can adapt, that we can cede ground as we do, when we need to, but it's also a peripheral sadness, and in the wake of the day's tragedies en miniature, the only one I know how to feel.
I also gave notice to my store manager, here in Boston, my city of limbo. She cried; everyone's crying at me today. I've reserved goodbyes to other coworkers for moments that can support the weight. I never belonged here, you see, but I did my best to find the good people, and now I must bid them farewell.
And return. Home. To Dallas. It's not true, is it, that word - home? Before I left it, I was glad to leave, and now that I'm returning, what is it? I'm not anxious to go back, I'm just anxious to go, and if backward is my only option, then. . .
I hope I look different. I hope people notice a change. I hope I seem older, more spare, but startlingly alive. I hope the mouth-breathers are afraid to mess with me. I have deep, stony wells of hope.
Maybe I won't need them.
Ciro
--
"At times some birds, a horse, have saved the ruins of an amphitheater."
- Jorge Luis Borges, "Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius" (trans. James E. Irby)