The Netherlands - Home is where my Wooden Shoes are.

It was long ago but as some point I was born in the Netherlands. I’m too long gone to call this country my home; things have avertedly changed beyond my recognition. The buildings, the skies, the perpetual drizzle are still there but the people are no longer those from whom I sprang. I see the friends of my youth shimmer in the glances of middle-aged men, whose grown up children call me sir. We rode bikes then. Now we drive family cars and show each other the reach of our companies; profit margins, real estate, port folio’s. They ask me where I’ve been and when I will leave again, and my eyes drift towards a pair of wooden shoes that were parked there in the fall. I know those wooden shoes; they’re there every winter. Some day I’m going to take those shoes and put them on. And I’ll stand somewhere, anywhere, and I won’t leave ever again. Home will be where my wooden shoes are.

Wooden shoes at my friend's house

Yellow pears on a blue stone

Lone walker on the beach at Ellemeet