Not in Kampala

I went through the wardrobe tonight. A red rock slab, cascading fountains, over arching branches, incense warding off mosquitoes, Italian arias, a ghostly moon, and real cappuccino. I was transported. The exotic blossoms, fuchsia and white with leaves which stretched out to shake my hand. I found inspiration, I saw it turn and look at me, wondering where I had been. I wondered to, how we had become such strangers. I reached for it and found… I found this: this stunted and frustrated prose aching to say something worthwhile.

What is left of my vocabulary is languishing. Try spending the better part of each day trying to explain the fullness of life to eight year olds. These days I search desperately for simple words.