I am homesick for the country. I was homesick before, too, when I was in South Beach. My friend had died and I wanted this street, this city, the cracked pavement and the dirt. I didn’t want the sun and the waves and the white sand, I didn’t want coffee and t-shirts and freckles on my skin. I craved cold and my own bed so it matched a little the grief that I felt. I was shaken to the core, and the sunshine didn’t suit my complexion or my mourning. I did not understand death and it was harder to understand so many miles from the city.

But now I am homesick for the country. Not for my street or Miami or even the cobbles and the sea, but the distance and the winding roads and the green as far as you can see. I am sick for space and distance and not the constant wanting for the space, not the constant sickness. The time together and the morning coffee that was, actually, in the morning. I am homesick for a home that was only mine for a few days. The ford that almost destroyed my car, the shops that shut at 4pm and didn’t open at all on Sunday. The warmth that I didn’t have to pay for.

I am homesick. But I am sure I’d find a way to be homesick elsewhere, too.


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