beans

I was walking through the crisp newly fallen leaves, bathed by the evening’s perfect moonlight. It dawned on me how at home I had become. Even in the darkest of shadows I knew every crack, bump and step in the sidewalk. The route was as familiar to me as the one I drove to work for years in Bloomington and yet more so because I knew what it felt like and smelled like. I had gone to visit with my host family. It seems that about once a week these days I am headed to their house for dinner, tea, fruit and conversation. I had not gone as a guest, but rather as a strange blue-eyed member of the family. My host mother and I shelled beans and engaged in small talk while my host brother hurried through his already unbearably cold bucket bathing routine.