I Dream of Return

The dark haired Italian sat on the edge of the roof, staring out at the shattered skyline. Rain clouded his vision and cleared his mind. The sound of raindrops barely permeated over the sound of the bustling city below. He didn’t like it here. He never would. It was loud and the people here were rude and obssessed with their material items. Not like home.

Home. Where his home was, you could walk out and see someone you know and have a nice conversation. Children played freely, without their parents being worried about their safety, because the community stuck together. At home, the rain was cool and inviting and nourishing to the earth. At home, the sun woke you up and kept you warm while you worked in the fields. And the birds sang with you. At night, the moon rose, big and full and the crickets chirps lulled you to sleep.

The Italian missed the fresh air, he missed the kindness and longed for his small town. He didn’t like the city, but he had to stay and provide for them. But he always dreams of home.

View this story's 4 comments.