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| Me photographing the Irish countryside, 2015 |
In particular England, Ireland, Italy, and France.
I was fortunately blessed to travel there about a year ago, for an extended stay.
While I was blissfully happy to return to my home once again, that bliss has completely receded.
In its place is a void so huge it hurts.
I find myself weeping - even sobbing - to return.
I miss the old buildings, the Old World everywhere.
I miss the languages.
I miss the people.
I miss the beauty.
I miss the clock towers with their ringing bells.
I miss the clatter of the cobblestones.
I miss the Irish smiles and laughter, the friendliness.
I miss rashers, those delicious breakfast meats.
I miss Dublin's energy, and Galway's pride.
I miss the smells - old and musty and then new and alive.
I miss the arches and bridges and rivers with their walkways.
I miss the Tube of London, the buses, too.
I miss Hyde Park in the evening.
I miss the meat pies, the tarts, the lemonade.
I miss the flower boxes and gardens surprising me as I stroll and explore.
I miss the Left Bank with its ghosts of people I would love to have met.
I miss the castles and cathedrals.
The wrought iron...how is it I can so incredibly miss wrought iron, but I do.
I miss the meandering rock walls and crumbling rock ruins.
I miss the art EVERYWHERE.
I miss the shops, the pubs, the excellence.
I miss the little hilly Italian villages with the moon and sun over them.
I miss Venice, the canals, the boats, the lights, the colors.
I miss thick drinking chocolate with whipped cream.
I miss the olive groves heavy with fruit, their pale green leaves merry in the sunshine.
I miss the bread - oh, my, do I miss the bread.
I miss standing and moving and breathing in an ancient timeline of which I am part.
I miss the way I feel when I'm there...
... as if I am embraced...
... as if I am home.
