He begins to pack his things, prepare his departures. We wander around the tropical garden, remarking on our sunburned bodies and full spirits, and you are awash with gratitude that your trip is far from over, already plotting your returns. Africa nestles its eons of birdsong under your skin, any lingering winter on your brow alights with the morning coffee on the veranda. He says to pack your safari bag light, we leave at dawn. Back in New York, other voices say other things and you forget how to hear echoes across the oceans. Surely it'll return to you, surely you can be more than this one trick pony of escapes into the wilderness at first sign of stillness.
(You want to believe it, but you haven't seen the proof,
yet)
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