Prose: Homesick

I am no stranger to strangers and the constant finding of and the leaving of things before and behind me. I would require many more fingers and hands and heads and hearts with which to count the beds, the carpets, the wood plank floors, the ceilings, the attics, the basements, the couches, the convertible sofas, the office chairs, the benches, the warmth and the cold where I have lived..

Born and bred under the guise of nomadic gypsy, between the irrevocable insane love between a man and a woman (still inseparable despite the botched catalyst of death) – both once plagued with the constant necessity to wake their three children in the middle of the night or morning or daytime hours, pleading with the other part of the beast with four arms and legs (the monster that kept them as one for so long) – with their lies that “Everything’s going to be okay.”

It is here in this amorphous destiny that I have met my match: myself.

Gone are the proverbial material comforts of “What movie do you want to watch tonight?” or “Meet me at the bar around 6” or “Guess what he told me today?” – these nameless monikers of my past (and hopefully my future) have been replaced with the unmentionable. Things gone unnoticed by the ever passerby, a person or place or thing with a capital letter that I will never know or learn or teach – let alone, all alone, see or hear or speak or touch or taste. It is this anonymity and anomaly that has set me free, so there is not much to be missed in the essence of things when you have everything and that every thing is nothing.

Square one.

If you return to where you never were in the first place to have a second look, even if you are the third wheel, holding the blasted unbalanced thing up (but altogether unnecessary), breaking down the fourth wall in some attempt to connect with your audience but alas the intimacy leaves little desire to do anything but plead the fifth – you may not exactly be going back to where you started but rather where you ended; the beginning of another ending and vice versa and so on and so forth.

I do not have the luxury of remedies that came in the form of fresh baked long breads, crusty on the outer layer of its intrigue, with soft, fleshy cooked dough on the inside that easily, oh so easily, gives way to the oils of fried flesh – the sacred giving cow of blessed hunger – the supple abrasive meat – the branded and boiled juices melding with the sweaty cheese that stands for everything American: hard and bitter yet soft and vulnerable under fire. That, with the necessity of ripe onions that do not entice other palettes for intimacy but is ever-long the source of augmenting immunity. The precious simplicity of the white and black complimentary contrasts of salt and pepper, and the creamy bittersweetness of red and white liquid accouterment…

To have and to hold and to squeeze and to bite at that never forgotten cure for all ills, that one-worded beast that has never been rectified into a formidable, quintessential, identical erection – that would make me feel better. Oh, more than ever and more than anything, I miss you Philly Cheesesteak.

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