in my dream we go to a church that isn’t ours. the pews are packed so we sit at the back and listen to the whispering of strangers sharing our religion. the congregation stands and when the music starts it’s my favourite song about never going home again. the priest walks down the aisle as the choir sings the lyrics of the psalm that pulses colour through my psyche. the angels in the choir and on the coloured windows sing of favourite friends and explosions on the television. I hear my parents join in and watch the man on the cross, motionless in agony, hanging high on the walls above every altar in chapels built for mourning everywhere. I wonder if he’s listening and if he likes the song.
at dusk my phone buzzes and reminds me to take my tablets, as it has done every day since my life in the other hemisphere. of every ritual and face that came to make up that place that was a world I came to love, a reminder at the wrong time is all I can still claim as my own. I think of morning in another timezone and the parts of my heart I’ll never find again.
work is understaffed. I do everything I can but I’m running out of tea. the sun was out so I washed my clothes and hung them on the line. I use the microwave for dinner and miss having somewhere to be. today they bombed a new country. I watch the footage on the couch and listen to the planes outside.
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