A few days ago, I thought, I want to go home.
I did not think this with wet eyes or the kind of ache I expected.
I was standing in the kitchen on the new rug by the sink, the rug that is green like our favorite cabinet and covered in the almost-arty cartoons of onions and carrots and the self-consciousness of its own whimsy. I had poured my tea before I remembered. I am home.
The cicadas here are nearly the same.
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