New windows ask to be peered through, new corners squeal to be looked around, but my ears are stubborn, and pretend not to hear change begging. I am ready for change, but feel that several glasses of wine must be had before the real pondering and imagining can begin; this is all very similar to casual sex: delusion and drunkeness will prepare for what awaits beneath or on top of the sheets.
Though, I am ready to leave Dover: the strange energy that our bodies have collected here must be shed, and left behind. The discomfort will be discarded and put in the trashcan with other household items that must go before the move; the discomfort will be swimming with Christmas wrapping paper and ripped up credit card offers in a large dirty blue bin (where it belongs).
The thought of returning home = comfort. The summers in Frostburg are always quiet; my parent's house will have a soft breeze coming through the familar windows. Sleeping-in will happen, lazy walks to the bar, conversation, swims in Finzel Pond, drying on the bank in the sun, and then the preparation to leave again.
We haven't recieved our plane tickets yet, but expect to leave for Suwon in July. Anticipation taps on my shoulder, but pretending not to feel its fingers seems to work. Before travel I instruct myself not to imagine anything, that way upon arrival all the bundled and repressed thoughts unravel, spreading out on new terrain. These hands will not try to gather the thoughts, but instead revisit them as my body passes where they have been set free.
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