Far from home

Chain smoking and cheap beer take me further from home.  Months have turned into years into a place without apple pies and pea coats.  I’ve only missed snow for one season but I nearly cried when describing it to some Filipinos at a bar on Saturday.

How can we speak of Emerson, Thoreau and Whitman without feeling New England?  The rocky coast, the wind whipping through Boston on the wings of ice.  I remember the night I slept in a cabin named for the Walden writer.  I remember curling up against the cold in a sleeping bag, terrified of bears outside and heartache within.  It felt right come 5am when we wondered out in boots and caps to see the sun blend into the water.  If a reader could ever kiss Throeau it would be there; in his home, in his essence, the smell of pine cleansing the air.

America, stop hurting me.  I love you.