Leaving home. Heading home. I walked out of the San Francisco apartment this morning in pouring rain, now waiting for an Iceland Airlines flight to Paris, then on to the little house in the mountains.
Home, a home I haven't seen for way too long, a home I left to get my Master of Fine Arts, to get my book published. I close my eyes and walk through the rooms in my mind, the brick walls, the peaked oak ceilings, the little wood-burning stove in the corner.
Hoping the snakes have stayed outside for the winter. Hoping the old Landcruiser starts. Hoping I am still enough the person I was when I left that the bergerie will allow me in. Love, fear, sorrow, regret, and hope. They mix and swell like waves.
An expatriate writer in France's Basque Country.
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