Its random and beautiful.
It sounds like the tide. Like the ocean can find me inland.
Its not perfect and consistent like the sea, neither am I.
On my porch I have seen a dozen people cross my block in the twilight to night on bicycles.
Three women rode past. Young and unknown to me. They stopped outside the house next to mine.
Dressed in hats and skirts with leggins, they carried their bikes up to their porch.
About twenty minutes later I heard singing from the their second floor apartment, the three of them belting out the words to The Magetic Zero's "Home."
And that's when it hit me.
I wanted to write. For the first time in months I wanted to write. I wanted to cry.
Now they are singing Cher.
In my head I hear Aly on the phone in the basement. In my heart I hear Meg singing Regina Spektor in the shower. I hear Amber laughing at a repeat of Friends. I hear the familiar footsteps of Jules above me.
And I am homesick.
Now the girls next door are singing Grease.
Two years ago I took the last diet pepsi out of the fridge and drove to DC.
There is little preventing me from doing that right now.
I think I might just do that and call it a night.
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