It’s 1:35 am on a Thursday morning. I lost the will to do anything useful several hours back, but I had planned to stay until Neha leaves so that we can share a cab (since she lives near me). The cold concrete floor, covered only by a thing layer of carpet (the kind I associate with churches), has sucked all of the warmth out of my feet.
So I have been combing through pictures of times when my feet were not so cold, and I was not so far from home.
In my memory, the sunlight is warm and plentiful. It is solid and can be scooped up to hold in your hand:
It pools into blossoms and fruit
The world stretches and spreads to embrace it
And in the warm of the afternoon you relish the bounty
The combines roar
And as the sun sinks and the swallows swoop above the fields (catching dinner that looks like dancing)
the world dissolves in the rustling of wheat and the symphony of insects.
Oklahoma. My heart belongs to your wind, your wheat, your sky.