The train rolls out of the station, early morning but still well past dawn, eager Stockholmers making their way to work after long vacations and resigned endings. It feels like fall. People on the platform wear sensible wind jackets, I shiver in my bare legs and wonder what happened to summer. Think in New Mexico it is endless, still, and the thought warms me even as I feel stretched across the continents, torn at the seams.
Late at night, the evening before departure, I could not sleep. Tossed and turned in all the large questions, while counting down to an alarm clock that didn't have to ring, I was out the door all on my own. Oh, but life is sad, and strange, and beautiful, you feel tendrils of home bury themselves on her borrowed balcony, look out over a water that once belonged to you, look at the children you should be knowing better, you feel home bend itself into bus seats and subway trains and the familiar tint of people's hair and accents. You know traveling twists your lenses beyond distortion, know that if you lived here you would always be slightly askew, know that New York feels like your spine aligning, but
oh,
In the late nights that refuse sleep, in the quiet, sandlime brick houses along a cross-country railway, in the cool crisp water of an evening swim, and the melancholic wringing of a heart already inflamed, you allow yourself wonder. What if this was home, and I'd never have to wander again,
It's a thought too to big grasp. I nap no the train, instead, look forward to another reunion and another question of it this what it is to be humnan?
The answer I'm only just beginning to fingure out.
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