[45] A Place That Pulls

I once traveled to a faraway land to live in a small earthen hut on the top of a hill, surrounded by banana trees and the raw sweetness of dense tropical trees and neighbors whose names I knew—a place where the rain falls heavily and gently, filling barrels from zinc roofs. Where cotton trees grow tall and wide and reach the sky—all-powerful, their force beckons whole villages to gather and nestle under their reach. Filled with endless calm, it bustles with the business of ordinary days—with water to fetch, rice to plant, palm oil to make, and cassava leaf that awaits. And the beat of a drum and dancing feet. And groundnuts, and kola nuts, and red hot peppers that fly off the plate. A place where mansions are built out of earth, and a singing language dissolves the distance of faraway calls—where limes fall from trees and refresh souls—far away from ice and cold. A place that pulls one's heart to yearn deeply for right where you are as you look to the same stars that others do—far, far from this paradise.