I was coming back from immigration yesterday, over the Matsuhama bridge where Yoko and I used to live. I spent three years living in the same small apartment in Matsuhama, and though it was drafty and old and small and poorly equipped for family life, it was home. As I rode my motorbike across the bridge, I felt myself reaching back to last year in my mind and wishing to go back, at least to that place that was in the city and surrounded by everything I knew. My current apartment has been filled with bad vibes for the last month, something I suspected, but hoped wouldn't happen, if London ever ended up working out.
There are only two months left and this place will quickly become one that I forget, a bump in the rode on the way to somewhere bigger, wider, better. But Matsuhama, and this bridge in particular, will always be in my heart — running in the snow, with no future, and then engaged, and then married and then pregnant and then with Naomi. All of those things came to me in those three rooms, filled with light and always condensed and condensing. I already miss it.
