Returns

Early in the morning, I climbed the same mountain again to say my farewells, not a cloud in the sky and an entire valley stretching out around me: how different the path in clarity. Now there is a metaphor, I snickered to myself, as I sat at the top of the hill and spoke to the city below. It took a while, but we made friends at last, didn't we? It took a few thousand miles, a few thousand breaths, it took a persistent beating heart but here we are, the sun shining, the sea quiet. I drove through the city this weekend and knew it, remembered it, I built a map of all the years between us and saw that I didn't have to be angry anymore. I am happy here, she said, and I knew she meant it; how can you carry a grudge against something that bathes those you love in such peace? I drove out of the city in the late morning, Santa Ana winds carrying me back into the desert; I drove and drove until the sun set behind me, until the stars multiplied across the great American night and I knew my way again. Returned to the little nook where my words lay waiting, pulled a large note out of the envelope I'd left:

...and in the midst of all the uncertainty, in all the things I adore about my life in Stockholm, I long for New York so my heart aches. Like if I could just come home, maybe everything won't be okay, but at least I'll know the soles of my feet
are burning.