My sister Michelle posted a video to Facebook, having just learned how to do that with her smartphone. It was a beach scene from Santa Barbara, my hometown: lazy whitecaps, spray droplets on the camera lens, dull roar of cresting waves. A seagull flew past. At the end of the video, Michelle is talking for a second. Although her words are unintelligible, her voice is cheery and musical.
I used to stroll along that beach. Hot dry sand sifted between my toes, until the always frigid tide washed over my feet. That's not to say it was a happy time. It's more than likely I was either mad or lonely as I walked along the shoreline. I've felt just as out of place in all the half dozen cities I've lived in since. Maybe that's why there's been no yearning to return to any of them, including my hometown.
But Michelle's miniature movie caused my shoulders to slump from a brand of melancholy new to me. It settled on my skin, delicate but unshakeable, like walking into a cobweb. I pressed play again and let the surf's hypnotic song pull me back toward familiar voices.
I used to stroll along that beach. Hot dry sand sifted between my toes, until the always frigid tide washed over my feet. That's not to say it was a happy time. It's more than likely I was either mad or lonely as I walked along the shoreline. I've felt just as out of place in all the half dozen cities I've lived in since. Maybe that's why there's been no yearning to return to any of them, including my hometown.
But Michelle's miniature movie caused my shoulders to slump from a brand of melancholy new to me. It settled on my skin, delicate but unshakeable, like walking into a cobweb. I pressed play again and let the surf's hypnotic song pull me back toward familiar voices.