Ant Hill:

I am living in a fantasy, allegedly. You’re so lucky that you grew up here, I receive from those who ask about where my roots were planted. Those asking belong to a symphony wearing Hermes sandals and carrying woven wicker handbags building a nest around the roots that have, as firmly as they can plant themselves, stood the test of transition. I live in a place where winter drives them away to someplace warmer, somewhere where they can plant a new seed and grow shallow roots that repeat this cycle until they grow bored or when eventually, it grows too cold in that place to stay. I’m living in the best place on earth, where the tuna crudo is covered with too many peppercorns because they insisted on keeping the kitchen open much past closing. They all stay in brand new doll houses, tasting like plastic melted in the sun and not yet to be considered a home. Their pheromones reek of perfume and renovation, like they’ve  been born from fresh cellophane, shipped from somewhere far away. Do they know that life smells like aging wood? Like the dust that settles into a carpet that is woven with the dog hair of three lives past? Do they know that things get better once time settles its gentle hands around them? Not like the wine or the cheese that grow just as sour as it grows expensive, but instead like the sweater that gets worn and worn and worn until it needs to be stitched back up, good as new. When you uproot and replant so often, the roots don’t get the chance to grow as deep. When you sit with the winter and bear down on the wind that wants to separate you from your frame, you can appreciate the still, suffocating heat of the summer even more. Even in one place, there are an infinite amount of sunsets to be seen. Yes, there is always the next thing, but the ground underneath your feet supports you right now.