I first noticed it when returning to the house in Mendon in which I lived for six years before spending some six months in the south of France. Entering the colonial, I was startled by the different colored curtains, the rearranged furniture, the missing rugs that changed the look of the whole place. Even the silverware and family dog looked strange, smaller.
Returning to Paris after losing myself in India has had the same effect. The furniture in my precious apartment has moved. The dog looks bigger (and she is actually a lot fatter). I'm discovering stories I'd left unfinished because, after all, it was only going to be a short trip.
I didn't know when I left that the neighbors glasses and rugs sprawled across the floor would collect dust and hair and be utterly useless. Before I knew four weeks would become four months, I left chips and other perishables in my cabinets to go to waste. I forgot while baking in the Tamil sun that a blue sock was trapped in the last load of whites I washed and the pastel-colored remnants were never folded or put away.
Standing in my kitchen felt like standing in a foreign land.
I craved something familiar. Before India, I spent several evenings a week dining and exploring Paris with a good friend, and it was time to see him. But I was in for a surprise.
I arrived at his house and searched awkwardly for words. It dawned on my how much had changed since my departure.
Nothing in his place was different but me.
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