The memories don’t change. To arrive in the middle of the night, step out of a plane and be welcomed by an arid wind that carries the sound of howling dogs, the roar of a pick-up truck, slow dance music. That carries sand and the smell of sea and soil. Of a dead lizard or dog. Of an open gutter. Of rot. Of bougainville. The sound of crickets. The moon on vast open spaces of shrubbery. To arrive in a different world, one where an eighty-year-old house boy speaks a pidgin English that’s impossible to understand. Doors open to an airconditioned home, the smell of Lysol and insecticide lingers between polished floor boards. Furniture that is not yours. Dark wood and flowered prints against velvety curtains. To feel like a guest but are told you’re not as this is now your new home.
The places change but memories don’t. To return and keep returning only to relive. To remember.