in context

Earlier I took to the sidewalks in the pleasant mild dampness of a spring evening. Walking these familiar streets is a journey into self, a path patterned by soft pleasures and consummated in old memories.

When I first returned home to lay claim to my personal heritage I wasn't actually struck by the many sprightly nyphs of my chlidhood; what I saw instead was continuity, a consistency between moments here and moments there.

I accelerated into the turn of Cook's Brook,
I found myself in the switchbacks of the mighty Himal.

I mulled over oranges in the Dominion supermarket,
I bartered rupees for fruit on the side of the road.

I make small talk with a local taxi driver,
I hear hindi music flit from car windows.

One of my first nights back, I take a spin to Cox's Cove and caught up with an old friend.

He said, "Dude, you have two realities in your head."

And then, minutes later, a guy in a white pontiac sunfire pulled up next to us and asked if we knew where Tommy's at.

Two realities.

Indeed.

Tonight I sang Patsy Cline, I rounded corners, I noticed the same sidewalks, I walked old routes. Looked at the pond, encountered familiar faces. This feeling of home is grounding, it makes staying and leaving both easy and difficult. Tonight I walked to feel my feet. Tonight I walked in quest, in a search. I think I know what I found.