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I hang my clothes to dry now. The Mediterranean quality of our climate allows for this. It encourages a kind of airing out of everything in our lives. We move from day to day like this: each action protracted, slowed almost to a stop. It is this waiting that is so heavy, this place that counters the sensation with light.

I no longer have to scoop hot, snapping ions into my arms but instead pick one cool, wet garment from the basket at a time. Shake out its folds. Clip it tenderly to the taut line above my head, where it will flip and snap along the breeze and lighten with each passing moment until it smells like the earth and is as dry.

I hang my clothes to dry now, and it is a meditation of sorts. It is a reminder that I am on the ground now, no longer floating on air like a kite. This is real and I am now and home is an action.