As I watched the water knock a towel from its washing line and trample it into the ground, I wrapped myself in reminiscence: my father walking up from the beach with a small purple flower tucked into his pocket and my mother asking me for any darks to go in with her running kit; Michael wiping his hands on his trousers before hesitantly wrapping his arms around me and Sam offering everyone a cup of tea and then forgetting to make it. I remember looking forward to not looking back; to sitting on the floor with my shoulders against the radiator and feeling the longing evaporate. As I watched the rain and complained with Birthe about humidity and mosquitos, I suppose a part of me knew that home would never really be home again.

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            In the days that followed I said my goodbyes. That afternoon, Felix dropped his white bike in the mud by the gate and pressed a passport photo into my hand, and another for Birthe. I could feel the uneven edges, freshly cut, digging into my palm as I watched his tyres split puddles and spray brown silt up the back of his legs. Standing at the door the next day, I waved to Birthe as a morning downpour bounced off the roof of her taxi. She pressed a wet hand to the window, her fingertips white against the glass, and blew kisses of chipped red nail polish and chapped lips until the car disappeared around the corner. Our room felt empty that night without the sound of her playing with her necklace or scratching her bites or asking me about home.

 

            I knew what she would have asked though, and I knew what my answer would have been: seeing my family and friends, noticing how they have changed over proper cups of tea and chunks of Malcolm’s tablet; walking into the loch in my wellington boots until the waves threaten to come over the top, while the coldness seeping into my feet makes me think that maybe they already have. I fell asleep thinking of teeth coated in sugar and burnt tongues and soggy socks leaving footprints on dark tiles.

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            A friend of a friend’s friend took me to the airport. As we trundled along, streams of timid sunlight poked through the dusty layer of grey clouds. I rolled the window down and caught the rippling water of the river winking at me in the gap between two buildings. As we passed the market I breathed in the familiar scent of fried plantain and fresh sweat, and I listened to the different voices tangling together in the heat. It was easy to spot Felix’s stall with its large, multi-coloured parasol and silver pots, but his plastic chair was empty. He was probably at the shop, buying more napkins or getting change.

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            Half way up the big hill that led out of town, the sun-bleached letterboxes were piled on top of each other like a child’s building blocks. Blue, yellow and pink, they marked the turn off that led up to Demelso’s. His house was hidden from the road, but I pictured him as we drove by, sitting on the flaking wooden steps with his knees wide apart, rubbing his head as he chatted to the little girl from next door who always wanted to come in and see what his home looked like from the inside. I did the round of goodbyes before I left: I had a last smoothie with Edwin and Rinio, I exchanged a last book with Sabine From Upstairs, who had become by this point just Sabine, and in the end I did give Sonia my granny’s shortbread recipe. But I didn’t say goodbye to Demelso. I wondered as we reached the top of the hill which letterbox was his. I wondered as we came down the other side why I had never noticed.