Somehow, it was nearly 60 degrees at the end of January. I walked out wearing a black jacket, long sleeved shirt underneath. I stuffed my red and brown striped hat in my messenger bag and started walked. I headed to meet someone about a potential job, so there was tons of chatter in my head, what to do, say, how to act.
But with sneakers on pavement, movement forward, I began to awaken to the world. Stark branches seemed confused against the blue sky, given the warm temperature. I searched limbs for buds. I walked past one brick apartment, hearing drumbeats through an open window. Taking an unfamiliar route, I off-roaded from the sidewalk through drying mud and past the white marble columns of a local church. I inhaled as I crossed the street, the scent of incense mixing with exhaust and a nearby restaurant, and I felt like I was walking the streets of Nancy again, walking home after a day of learning in a language that was not my own.
What language do I speak when my breath catches in my throat? When I see the sun through my camera lens and sparks of memory rise in my chest?