I flew back ad lib to my hometown in the Pacific Northwest. The circumstances that pulled me there weren’t pleasant, but I had pleasant moments. Such as bumping into people I hadn’t seen in years with whom
I had exchanged books, rode horses, frequented art galleries, chuckled over bad poetry readings (usually our own), played music, and danced; individuals who had filled my existence with distinct richness in a well-recognized area for the arts that doesn’t view an individual as a loner but a way of life.
It was during an enlightening conversation over cappuccinos with my dear sister under the sunny, happy-faced (and, okay slightly creepy as if they had ears) sunflowers that towered over us in the café’s garden when it dawned on me. Nostalgia isn’t just homesickness. Nostalgia is evidence
of reality. One I can now appreciate at a whole other level.