they said you'd feel it, after the excitement of adventure and the congratulatory remarks wore off: you'd feel it sewn into your spine when you smelled a certain scent on the breeze or noted the absence thereof. you'd feel it when you realized the crickets didn't sing to each other out the window at dusk. you'd feel it when the hills slipped away, replaced by endless miles of woods and foreign red ocean.
the timepiece by my bed says 7:30, but in my mind it's 5:30 back in California and the sun is slanting through the lattice french doors, spilling august, honey-tinted light all over the dining room floors. the open windows are allowing a sweet breeze to let full reign through the house, while a dove's gentle cooing haunts the otherwise serene world out of doors. on the other side of the garage, heirloom tomatoes are warm and ripe under the age-old lilac tree.
it's 5:31 back in California,
and i'm missing home.
postscript // a playlist pour vous that reminds me of home.