This time last year

Everything fell into place and everything was orchestrated. I was ready and sick of it. I was tired of the cynicism and dark winters. I came back from Beirut, and the city was rainy and gray. I slept on Isabel's floor, three cushions awkwardly pushed together in the 10th, by the Canal.

And I didn't blink when I left, and I felt nothing. I used to imagine taking the metro to the airport, watching sun stream through the windows as I raced away from the city. And I thought I'd be sad, but I wasn't.

I guess it takes time to digest and to step away. Now I miss simple things like Tunisian dates, listening to Neji's Arabic, deep French voices, dewy Montmartre streets in the mornings, the market at Montreuil, the Jardin du Luxembourg, and days of wandering to escape loneliness.