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Tangier Shibam Calcutta Chongqing Houston Airport Times Square French roads The Wannsee Belgrade The Bosporus You want me to come back but I cannot return, not for one last time. I can see the yellow light at sun up in the dark blue sky from my bedroom window, and the cold air of many childhood mornings is fresh again. It is impossible; I cannot walk the hall and enter the rooms, sit at the kitchen table and listen to the family. Not again; it is not my home. Once more around the old house, the rooms that need painting, still creaking doors that no one has repaired; the loose floorboards, the refrigerator that shudders, and now it is all unnecessary. If I was there I would be still and shiver. You understand now that I will not return. After the noise of the homecoming there is silence, restlessness fills a traveler’s heart like mine. I keep moving. To where is not important but to places, far away. In the truly remote, there is only another traveler, like some ascetic priest finding the true self amidst thorns and rocks. The engines drone and the cabin stirs half-asleep. I have read all three letters now. I know precisely what is going on, and what has been said, and the mood and why it means the things you say. I understand everything, now that you have told me. Sights, sounds and the country are fixed with sharp definition in my imagination. I remember the day I got the scar on my forehead: the fire we lit, rounding up sheep, and running outside in the bone dry hot rain, the droplets evaporated the instant they touched skin. I do not have a good memory. Things make their own memory; I do not have a diary, I cannot record what I have done. And if I did, the contents would not be mine. I would have to imagine another person to know what they meant. I put myself in the place of the observed, I see myself as a visitor. I am booked for the next six months; nothing can be done to break the schedule. It is a pity: but I will sign and send the contracts back at the next stage. I have nothing to add, and if I become too involved in the sale of the farm, I would prolong the business: better to be done with it in a month than wait for me to come back. I do not mean to be distant, it is simple: I am always moving. And so it is easy to forget where I come from. Your letters bind us. One day, soon, we will talk. Until then, I have these letters; shared, joined with the past, but without them we might forget each other. And those memories are still in the hearth, which as the farm goes, like everything, will be unknown.

Profile for Burner Magazine

Burner Magazine, issue 01 (September 2010)  

The inaugural issue of Burner Magazine, which aims to take the boring out of the literary and arts scenes.

Burner Magazine, issue 01 (September 2010)  

The inaugural issue of Burner Magazine, which aims to take the boring out of the literary and arts scenes.

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