cool morning air

Today you go back to Morocco.  More than a year now, and the first things to fade are the names.  Places, everyday phrases and dishes.  How could you forget those?  Random details stick with you.  How they made you feel, the sounds they made, the coolness of the air in the morning.

You’re dabbing warm bread in olive oil and honey.  You think – there’s a good chance I’ll never go there again.  The morning air is cool here, too.

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