Being back is weird.
The crickets in the evening are deafening, louder still than the neighbors on their riding lawnmowers. It never gets dark at night, especially when it's overcast. Not because we're far north or anything, still riding south of that forty ninth parallel, but because the orange hue that oozes from the east reminds me exactly where it is I'd rather be. Everyone is still paranoid, everyone still drives a silver sedan. Everyone coaches a soccer team on Saturday, goes to church on Sunday, and washes their cars and walks their dogs between 5 and 7 on those days left over.
Everything is so far apart.
The city is still dirty, still loud, charming and rich. People still push, budge, spit, hang loosely off of lamp posts and cat call to the women around sunset. Cars continue to run red lights, ignore pedestrians, park on funny angles and endlessly crash into each other. Busses are crowded and awkward jittering things, and no one ever knows if they should sit or stand or give up their seat to anyone with a gray hair or two.
My house is still big, warm, familiar, mostly empty, and will never be my home. I came in to anything resembling me sitting on or around the bed I'm allowed to sleep on. Boxes everywhere. Sometimes I think Doug marks his territory with computer boxes. The clocks in the kitchen still run purposely ten minutes fast; it is still my kitchen in the future. Two of my plants died, two of them lived and Miss Canada was moved to the side of the road.
Things are still the same, but I suppose it's only ever the perspective that changes.
