Saying goodbye

Three moves is as good as a fire, I say packing up and already feeling the torque of my upcoming accelerated life coming up hard against every good reason not to go.

Freedom is measured by the things we cannot live without, she says stirring the adobo at the end of the kitchen. 

Overstating the obvious is as American as apple pie, I think to myself. 

Let go of the ways in which you define yourself and new things start to happen at once, she says.

I look at her and think, why bother, as soon as you start throwing dirt, you are already losing ground.

Dominique Falkner, a life in crisis, she says suddenly walking out of the room.

There are three doors in Venice that are supposed to open into another world, I say to her.

Venice is a long way from here, she says.

“Our dwelling is but a wandering, and our abiding is but a fleeting, and in a word our home is nowhere,” I say, raising my voice, quoting a separatist leader at Plymouth circa 1620.

Talk for yourself, she yells back, exiting the house.

Key West, February 2016