i wish...

what i wish is that i was going back, in a week, to what i had before.

two nights ago, after turning off the light and laying down in my (uncomfortable dorm) bed, i listened to the yelling out on the street below and watched the light that seeped around my blinds and remembered nights in my house in kibuye. i remembered locking the doors to the lake and closing the curtains, turning my living room into a cocoon of warm candlelight, reading books and calling people from my uncomfortable wooden couch. i remembered the night that i parked my car facing out because there was trouble between rwanda and congo and said to sara, who was staying in my house, "if you hear any shooting, meet me in the hallway. try to bring some pillows or something because we might be there a while." i remembered the night that two friends and i decided to sleep out on the patio. we dragged our beds out there, then hung up mosquito nets and slept under stars that i couldn't see because i didn't have contacts in. i remembered the night, two nights before i left, that the last of the goodbye party people didn't leave until 3 am and a random vso volunteer with no place to stay helped me clean up by the light of lanterns.

when i go back, i will not belong in that house. how is that possible? so many days when i shared my four extra rooms with tourists or strangers or vso teachers. how is it possible that i won't have my prado? so many rides to and from kigali behind the wheel of that truck, one hand on the cd player to keep it from skittering across the passenger seat into the space between the seat and the door, where i couldn't reach it while driving. i drove that road so many times - well over 100 each way. i know every curve, every place to slow down and speed up, every scenic spot where the mist rises in the mornings. i could drive it asleep. i could drive it right now in my mind if i closed my eyes.

and it's going to make me so carsick and so heartsick to have to sit in a seat other than the driver's when i'm there in a week and a day. i can't believe that i won't belong there.