Where does that feeling of the ocean go? Of the sun, of the healing, of comfort and warmth, the cozy uncertainty of vacation? One step out into the snow, the cold gripping my spine, the tension of winter pulling my form into a hunched curve.
The smells can linger; the light humid sulfur of a burning fire, that dank dump smell that pops out of nowhere. The memory of the waves, the evening trade wind, the crash of waves and unfamiliar caw of lankier versions of birds we have at home. The taste of a frozen Danino yogurt on a stick, still warm corn tortillas, drops of lime juice on the rim of a cold Pacifico beer.
But now they are gone, left behind, held only in momentary photographs and sunburns. In the grains of sand I still see in Neptune’s ear.
Its always good to be home, though, even in the winter, even after a vacation. I’m looking forward to sleeping in our own bed, drinking tap water with total abandon.
Now off to real reality. Making macaroni and cheese for Neptune’s lunch, trying to recover from my recovery.