Exile.

Today is Memorial Day. As the unofficial beginning of the American summer, it should involve waking up 'early' to go sit on a curb next to one particular driveway not far from Main Street, watching dozens of primary school teachers trying to keep four to seven-year-olds in a straight line walking down the parade route, local marching bands playing patriotic songs, a short ceremony at the cemetery and then, as a Calvinette (don't ask), putting little American flags next to veteran graves. Then there's the brief consideration of a church-run pancake breakfast before heading home to further contemplate the weather's promise before canceling boating plans for something much less fun but a bit warmer.

Last year, we were on a boat in Halong Bay, Vietnam, and the year before we hung out in Central Park. This year? Not sure yet. When I remembered again last night that I didn't have to go to work today because it is, coincidentally, a bank holiday in England, all I wanted was that parade/pancake/boating day. And if not that day, then maybe a day laying around Central Park or wandering through SoHo with friends? Something involving sunshine and people who've known me for longer than eight months? Sometimes it does feel as if we've imposed a type of exile on ourselves that goes back to our years in Manhattan, mostly the impossibility of partaking in familiar family-oriented holiday traditions, but also extending to growing attached to a place before leaving it for somewhere else. At least it makes life exciting, and it's not as if new friends aren't on the horizon, just as old ones haven't gone away (just further away).

I must say, I woke up to beautiful sunshine this morning. Not quite boating weather, but then it rarely is today in Michigan, either.