As I sit on the steps on a chilly but not cold New Zealand evening, I long for what I ran from.
I think of walking down the street heading home, my toes, ears, hands freezing, despite my winter jacket and boots. I walk faster.
I enter the house, and perhaps it’s still cold. I turn on the heat and curl up under a blanket while I wait for it to kick in. I watch a movie and smoke a bowl. Perhaps I am alone, or perhaps Esther is there.
I don’t necessarily need where once was home, but I need home for a time. It’s been too long since my cold heart has endured a painful goodbye. But the painful goodbyes come only from things that were worthwhile. I feel like a tourist of my own life.