Returns
I am back.
It's wintertime. Not that cold. Not that warm either.
A shy light is seeping through the windows, the curtains, under the door. Six years have passed since the day I decided this was not enough,
this was not what I wanted to be.
Water splashes in the sink, garlic is in the air, the fridge buzzes. I walk around the house. A clock, a lamp, a doll.
One moment I am a stranger, the next one, homesick.
I am a spy.
I grab my camera. Point it at you. I press the shutter, again and again. What I see, it is not the light, but moments stolen from the darkness of memory.
They take me in and push me out.
They are a recollection of what home is here now, what it is miles away and what no longer is.
Home is who I am and who I am not anymore.
I am back.
