This year I flew again. This year I thought
I’d never come back –or at least I wouldn't come back so soon. And here I am at
home, by chance –but is this really home now, after wandering around, looking through
those glass holes in planes and trains, feeling so low and so high at the same
time, for so long, after six years?
More specifically:
I think I’ll miss
that morning
watery coffee, that Friday never-cold-enough beer;
that crowd of brown eyes
looking for a swatch of blue in the deepest grey, and that crowd of blue eyes skilfully
avoiding any awkward situation.
I’ll miss
walking along the Thames while the yelling
gulls fight and the tipsy Londoners practise the national sport, walking along
the galleries full of all those marvellous pieces of world and culture painstakingly
treasured by that race of imperialists.
I’ll miss my coming back to Cambridge, realizing
how absolutely painless and beautiful it was.
So many old friends, some new ones.
El meu nebodet mig guiri sobre la gespa d’Oxford, amb la boca plena de
xocolata, i fent el lleó: ROOOAR, ROAAAR!
I’ll miss you all –but I never leave, because I’m always coming back.
