The first thing I noticed when I returned
home
was that I had been gone for
too long.
My body has forgotten what it’s like to be
cold,
to sit in that tranquil veil of chill
and lie oh-so-perfectly still.
Now it doesn’t know what to do.
This morning, it’s
almost
cold.
The air lingers on the edge between frigid and lukewarm,
the slightest breath of winter eking in through the windows,
a sensation nothing like California air.
And so I almost shiver.
There’s a tingling in my ribcage,
a line of anticipation dancing across each bone,
a tickling
like Jack Frost didn’t believe me
when I told him I wasn’t ticklish.
And just as it starts,
it ends.
My body finds its purchase,
banishes the cold from my skin,
and leaves me with a smug smirk on my face
as Jack Frost trudges away,
pouting in disappointment.
The second thing I noticed when I returned
home
was how easy it was to forget
ever leaving.