Homesick Like Crazy (Write with Me #1)
Prompt: I’ve lived in this town my whole life, and most of the time that’s fine by me. But in late fall, when the sky fills with birds migrating south for the winter, travelling thousands of miles, I get homesick for places I’ve never been.
Places like Paris, where the Eiffel Tower dominates the skyline, and my heart. I think about all the lovers I’ve jilted over a café au lait and croissant at a cosy little café.
As the sun sets over the grocery store’s corrugated iron roof, I imagine that I remember Tokyo, and the rush of a thousand faces passing me by as I commute to work. I fantastically recall taking a high-speed train out to the countryside, past bamboo forests and rows of cherry blossoms, to a temple built long ago. There, at that holy place, I offer a prayer that, someday, I might go home.
I lock the store’s doors and start my walk home. The sky has darkened, and the birds have gone onwards in their escape to warmer climes. By the time I get back here at dawn tomorrow, they will have travelled farther than I ever have.
Flyers for the mom and pop travel agent lie carelessly strewn on a bench. I snatch one up, greedily, and tuck it safely into my bag, next to the bread and milk. I want to look at it now, but I had best save it for later.
When I finally get home, David has been drinking for hours. It doesn’t surprise me when he calls me lazy because dinner isn’t ready. I wonder if there was no work on the site again today, or perhaps his mother asked after me.
It doesn’t take him long to hit me. All I can hope for is that the bread and milk don’t spill onto the carpet. He’ll only hit me harder if I have to clean it, or if he has no milk for his cereal tomorrow morning. The flyer catches a draft from his kick, and tumbles under the sofa. As he reaches for his belt, I start to miss Rome.
It’s nice this time of year.
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