Acaba de decir el Nicolás a ti que la comunidad se termina como lugar de libertad.
Place of freedom? Freedom.
And in that I recognized what Boston was: freedom. And quite possibly why I’ve been missing it this week.
Freedom. Boston was freedom. Symbolically, the six and a half hours literally flew me from my grounded, entrenched world of, well, not-freedom. And I saw also that sad, wrought flight back–the homing pigeon come back to cage. Come back because it’s what I know.
Is it not the extreme point of tragedy that the place where I have community–where I have life and place and niche and recognition–almost seems to reach chains up to tether that homecoming bird?