How strange to leave this foreign, distant place only to emerge in a few hours in another foreign, distant place. A wisp of the concept of "home" remains. More an ideal or a construct than a reality. It involves: red walls, my king size bed, picking strawberries at the hatch-patch with Aunt Mabel, Shirley's Sweet Tea, two-weak old borscht, my procession of Oldsmobiles, Vassya cat, and spaghetti with a glass full of milk - redsauce lip stains on the glass.
I would only be an architect if I knew I could design an airport.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment