Twenty eight
My house is empty. The dog is with doggie friends, husband is millions of miles away. It’s hard sometimes to sleep when it’s like this, even harder when I am excited about something.
I will be spending my birthday tonight on the banks of the Guadalupe River, figuring out how to attach my digi-cam to the handlebars of my scooter so I can capture the Texas Hill Country scenery as it passes by during tomorrow’s ride.
Yesterday during a bizarre spring-y rainstorm I looked at the umbrella I bought in Seoul, the one that reminds me of a Magritte painting, and had a very strange feeling.
I looked at this umbrella in my hand, and for a split second I felt a fondness and nostalgia for the monsoon season in Korea, for waking up in the mornings and watching the fog rise over the bay and walking everywhere with a umbrella in my hand, the smell of humidity in the air before the stifling heat of summer.
It’s the first time I’ve felt any kind of longing for Korea since we got home. And as soon as I realized what it was, it was gone.
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