Ants have a way of finding themselves on picnic blankets. On mine especially–especially here in Italy. They look just like the ones back home, though they speak differently.
My mind is drawn to those other little items left at home yet found here all the same: my regret and my shame. Only my joy seems willing (perfectly willing) to remain in one place.
There are more ants on my blanket now. I consider napping but know this will not make them go away. They will only crawl over me. And, waking, I will turn a hand to find them just as they were–ever at work, ever moving.
And yet. I notice one on my arm just now, circling a scar I’d almost forgotten. It is more brown than the black ones I remember back home. Some things actually do change, when you find yourself changing places, after all.
Posted July 15th, 2012