<center>Displacement</center>

<center>Everything I own has been sold, except for my soul, to accommodate an unrelenting
urge to return to something deep within me, something too complex for phrasing.
The mild turbulence mid-flight is but an insubstantial mocking of my wavering heart
as I collect and sort my thoughts for what is most likely the four thousandth time.
There is something stirring the moment I step foot upon the ground, elevating my
awareness to an unprecedented standard and overpowering my urge to turn and run.
Common sense be damned! 
I abandon the last rational thought, and shift the rented coupe into
fifth gear heading in what I estimate to be the right direction. 
Fading scraps of memories mingle with images from the brochure
on the passenger’s seat, fashioning a virtual tour of the small village
in my mind’s eye as I navigate this foreign thoroughfare.
The inn is well appointed and graciously decorated, and I am greeted by an aging
hostess whose smile is as charming as the sound of her accent to my novice ear.
The gaiety is short lived as an uneasiness begins to work on my bearings; I take
her arm, allowing her to guide me to the stone patio where a cushioned bench awaits.
She asks me the reason for my visit while she pours us each a cup of tea, and my
offered explanation sets her to laughing; I am certain she thinks I am touched with
madness, as her expression shifts between amusement and wide-eyed curiosity.
"Could it be that my hearing is in need of calibration?", I wonder inwardly as she recounts
a tale that bears a resemblance to the story I was sure I had invented to soothe my
wounded ego; the detailed concurrences are accumulating too quickly for me to tally.
Pointing to a path flanked by hydrangeas, she urges me through an iron gate and
instructs me to follow the narrow lane until I reach a weathered cottage by the shore.
I open my mouth to deliver a weak protest, but her deep, reassuring gaze stills my words.
I walk, surrounded by fragrant blooms and my own stupor until the path gives way
To stone sentries and sand, and the melodic lament of a mournful pipe stops me in my tracks.</center>

<center>Copyright Tina Jordan 2017, All Rights Reserved</center>
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