Sitting there, in the steady rain, is the latest example of whatever mammal has been raid in our orange tree this time round. Coming back from dinner, we saw a possum scurrying across the road, but there was no way of telling of he was the thief. The oranges, for me, stand as such a powerful symbol of living here rather than in New Jersey, and I feel powerfully bonded to them (can one feel bonded to a half eaten orange?). I think what I mean is that in New Jersey, I was very aware that I never walked or drove around and thought yes! This is me! This is a part of me - indeed, quite the opposite, which is probably why, last weekend, I mysteriously only felt a small whisp of nostalgia for a state in which I spent ten years, And yet, coming up the stairs to the house, I only have to smell a faint whiff of orange, and I know I'm home.
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