21 November 2014

Disconnections

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The Harborne High St in the cold, crisp air and the smell of pipe tobacco on my fingers, reminds me of the first week I was here, across the street from Cafe Nero, looking for a house to move into. Now, it all feels like home, like we have been through Christmas here once before. I'm sure that we have, in fact — the girls seem to know it like a phantom memory. 

There's something about being away from writing that makes it hard to write again, to find the entry point to the experience of the last month. It's gotten cold, and I've kept working out, running to work in the morning and then at home in the evening. My parents came and went and I drove to and from the airport with the sort of anticipation that doesn't seem to ever wear off. 

It's been a year now. Exactly a year ago.
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