Life as an Extreme Sport

missing home

I left quietly. It’s not as though anyone could hear me, but I still slid the door slowly and silently, using my fingers to cushion the gap. The door that swung shut, I placed my palm on, flat, and moved with the motion of the closing door, waiting for alignment between door and jam and then locking with care. I used equal care in walking, in calling the elevator, in stepping down the stairs.

I missed the rain, today, three times making it outside in the breaks between storms. The scent was there, though, moist and rich and wet and a damp dirty smell rich with herbs and flowers, an almost heady perfume. I took my time walking home, lingering in the park, watching the sun paint the sky goodnight.

I thought about choices, and feeling stuck between feeling selfish and feeling desperately ungrounded. And how I can’t talk about most of what is on my mind, with anyone, because there is either no one who can hear, or no one who wants to hear. And just how much being competent can be a curse.

Mostly, though, I thought about wanting to go home. The overwhelming, aching desire to go home, and how horrible it is to feel like I don’t know where that is anymore.

I used to be loud, pale as milk and bold as a promise. But somewhere, I seem to have lost being as bold as a promise. Now, I’m just a silent ghost, seeing everything, rarely saying anything.

My statements these days come in movement, in noise. And I always leave quietly.