the air conditioner in the room is on. it's the kind we don't have at home, the one that is situation right below the window with buttons to press. the combination of wet hair and the cold air cools me down until i'm relaxed. calm.
later, when we get back from dinner, i will find a book hidden in my bed. a magical fairy follows us around and leaves a new book every night of our vacation. the humming of the air conditioner plays it's melody as i begin to read and the comfort of all of this settles in around me.
my hair is wet. it's long enough now that it hits the middle of my back, dripping water onto my pillows. i'm more than five, more than six, but those versions are still somewhere within me and they are loud. my skin is tan from the sun and i'm impatient, ready to know what's next. i'm certain i'd rather be back on the beach.
the air conditioner in the room is on. it's the kind we don't have at home, the one that fits into a window with buttons to press. the combination of wet hair and the cold air cools me down until i'm relaxed. calm.
i shift my computer to the other side and discover a book hidden in my bed. this was no book fairy as i'd tossed it there earlier, but magick still follows me around.
who says you can't go home? you're already there. it's all within you.
you are four, you are five, you are six and laughing. you are fourteen and sobbing, sixteen and yelling. you are twenty-two and brave, nineteen and drunk, eight and trying. you are the color of your childhood home, the bricks of your first apartment, the speakers of your first car.
turn on the air conditioner, listen to that album you played incessantly, doodle his name all over your notebook, bake the cookies your aunt always brought to holidays, catch the scent of your mother's perfume, put your hand on your heart line and let the beating tell you you're exactly where you're supposed to be, that home is within, and no one can take that from you.