Every inch of the house looks like an image from an urban architect magazine describing hip rural living. I giggle at my own captions before diving into a 1000-piece puzzle with my mother. Me, laying puzzles. Unheard of. This is vacation, what it does to you. As the car gets packed up with technical gadgets and telephones for a trip to the civilized world, I stay behind, turn up the sound system, and let my soul pour its heart out.
It seeps into the cracks of the hardwood floor. It trickles out onto the porch in the afternoon breeze. It spreads across the olive trees, the birdbath, the yellow fields and the ocean below. I sing along to the music until my chest trembles, I pretend to lie down in the hammock but my legs long too much to run.
I know my return looms in the suddenly much nearer future. I know I need to start working, catching up, getting back in touch with those back home who expect my correspondence and my schedules. A large part of me misses New York something terrible and cannot wait to run through its streets again, back in the company of those I love. The word begins to rummage about my bowels, asking but a minute of my time, asking to come to the surface. But for now, how sweet it is. Just to revel in this land, this air, this sun.
How did life get so good?
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