I Am Not Holly Golightly

But I am travelling.

I don’t miss my parents. I haven’t missed them for years. (That sounds inconsiderate – I just don’t really get homesick anymore.)

But sometimes I find myself thinking of the smell of bodies that spend all day in the sun. The weight in the sky before a summer storm, and the strength of the thunder in the afternoon.

When I travel, I find myself more or less guessing the weather. Glancing warily at an unfamiliar sky with a half-creased brow and turning up my collar, hoping for the best. I do not know the sky here, I do not know her habits or her idiosyncrasies. I only know the sky at home. And so I look over my shoulder all afternoon, wondering why the sun’s so far away.

I miss the freckles on my pale shoulders. I miss the six-month summers the southern hemisphere and a sub-tropical climate do so well.

But then again – I don’t get to wear jumpers, or scarves, or jackets or coats. It’s normally too hot in the kitchen to really cook most of the year and we never use our fireplace, as much as I’d like to.

And maybe I’ll get used to the sky being so tilted away from the sun. I’d like to. It’s not so bad. A little less blue sometimes, but no less wide. I’d like to know it.

But I’ll still keep my habits. Every time I come back to that little corner of the southern hemisphere –

I’ll look up.



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