Wish You Were Here

The camp was wet with rain all winter, and I got sick of it enough to start to beg Adam to take me home, which he customarily does every January 12th, but I'm always hopeful he will do it early.  It drizzled into January, clouds that spat on us in New Jersey following me over the bridge into the city at night while I raced Adam into becoming something other than ourselves.  

I dreamed Clyde brought blue upholstery fabric - leather - to me, and I thought it must be for a car.  Bonnie suggested for his car because the interior is so decimated by now.  When he took me home last night, as a repeated ritual of Adam's, it was my car which he'd updated.  

 

In the sweat of the second floor now made into a greenhouse, we laid under the tree and he told me that growth happens fast and slow, simultaneously.  I can only assume he means to make the second floor even less hospitable now that we're back.  

Going home for me has always meant the return to the familiar from the unfamiliar.  That usually feels good, but I can't specify why this time feels different.