Smoking a cigar on the waterfront of my hometown
It is eleven o’clock and I am smoking a cigar on the busy waterfront of my hometown. On the seashore a father and son are sharing the son’s exciting experience of fishing.
There are three fishing rods placed 10 metres apart from one another and the boy is in charge of shuttling between them while his father, almost regally, sits on a picnic chair smoking cigarettes.My friends are busy tonight and the roar of the waves is familiar and hypnotic. This is my sea that I used to gaze out to every morning from the window of my bedroom; the sea in which I swam, the sea in which I sailed with my wooden boat; the sea that I even despised because it did not take me away from my boring and provincial life.Despite the time of the day, people are strolling up and down the sand trying to cool down from the heat wave cast upon the day.Although this is not my home anymore, and the people I am surrounded by are strangers to me, I feel a spiritual harmony, a sense of belonging that speaks to my heart.The boy on the seashore is now running towards the fishing rod on his extreme left. The tip is flickering. His father is impassive in his folding throne. The scene is amusing.I decide to move. I throw the cigar butt in the bin and I start touching the hair band my daughter put on my wrist before I left Melbourne, three weeks ago.I miss her very much.