bare feet, jeans and lists...

what I do when I miss my Africa and my kids is that I pull on a pair of jeans which I like to call "my next Africa jeans" an old tee which went with me there (and still has that un-washable reddish tint from all the dust), and I curl into ball on my bed and cry silent tears.

not because I'm sad (which I sure am) but because it feels wrong to be where I am right now, and yet, there's nothing I can do about it.

and so I write lists - lists of dreams about things I'd pack next time, lists of dreams about flight tickets, visa and laundry soap.
sometimes they help forget, sometimes I feel like I'm doing the right thing for a little while. sometimes not.

and so I walk barefoot, wishing I would remember the feeling of soft red dirt on my soles.

and so I am trapped here, not knowing how to get out, that's why I cry - frustrated and not brave enough to do what I feel I should be doing, not brave enough to follow my dreams.