because i have no story to tell

The African guys are playing football in the park again. I sit and watch them from the hillside, listening to their shouts, in English and the occasional French. One guy has his shirt pulled back over his head so he's wearing it only on his arms and shoulders. The look is so familiar to me, as familiar as the neighborhood boys when I was growing up in Liberia, but I can't remember if it is familiar from Liberia or Rwanda or African television. I watch them pass the ball and feint, trying to get past a defender. I watch them with such longing, such heartsickness, that I think it must be obvious on my face, even from the field.

...

I'm still learning to like berries. I waste too many blueberries, picking through for the perfectly plump, perfectly round ones without a hint of pink remaining, without the first wrinkle of age.

...

The air is the temperature of perfect comfort, in the evening, and even though being outside makes me sniffle and sneeze, I linger.

The allergies, though, have driven me to something I never thought was possible: I closed the window and turned on the air-conditioner. LOW! I turned it on LOW! But it is on. One day, after a week or two of not sleeping due to a headache that would not relent, I caved. I closed the window, turned on the air, and finally slept.

I miss the outside air. I don't miss the sinus headache.