On the train, on the way to dinner, I think:
I’d like to have a friend here who would run along the water with me in the evenings.
I’d like to learn this language so that I could talk to the neighbors I claim, briefly, as my own.
I’d like to sit outside smoking a cigarette because that’s what I do, talking with the people I’ve known forever as we drink amber beers in the waning light.
I’d like a baby who babbles in chatter that carries with it a tinge of Spanish already forming on her lips.
I’d like to intrinsically know how to tell which seafood is the freshest and then be able to take it home from the market and prepare it for family who would swoon.
I’d like to have skin browned by years in the sun, by days in and out on this hot sand, by mornings and afternoons and evenings spent against the sounds of slight waves lapping upon the shore.
I’d like to taste life, again and again and again, in so many of its variations, in its beauty and glory and laughter.
I’d like to do it all. And then, I’d like to do it again.