|Hugging the Plane tree in the garden|
when we first arrived
I'm not at the point of having to say goodbye yet but it does seem that I spend a lot of time thinking about it.
The end of September.
All traces of our summer guests
have gone: sand rinsed from showers,
beach towels folded away.
Under the terrace
the deflated paddling pool
We will not be here
much longer: palm trees, the Mistral,
the smell of coconut oil
at the supermarket check-out,
things of the past.
Four years of our life.
We measure it in numbers:
try and make sense
of what we gain, what we lose.
A language. The scent of bread
carried on a sea breeze. The company
of the sun. The people we love
far away at the end of a phone.
Let me imagine a year ahead:
my parents' will celebrate
their 60th year together.
The smell of apples in the cold store.
The cat will have captured
a foreign territory and accepted it
as home. Which is what
we all crave: home.
I find it relatively easy to feel 'at home'. I can adapt to circumstances and situations. Sometimes it's a temporary home, a writing retreat that's made more familiar with a bed-throw, a rearrangement of the room's furniture. Sometimes it's more permanent: learning a language to feel part of a community.
Write about changes. About home. About the year ahead. Or the one you're leaving behind.