An ache, deep inside: a fight to suppress the tears so close to escaping. It happens every time I leave. For, it is leaving behind the childhood memories, the sounds and smells and the people.
This was another short trip: a stay just long enough to rekindle the love.
It is here that I first fell in love; a love born of the red dust of the soil. It was before I loved my husband; maybe before I even loved God. Yet, just like my love for God, it has always been there. It is a deep, passionate love.
It is a love for Africa.
No matter how happily married one is, the reuniting of a past love awakens senses; not necessarily a betrayal of trust, but a deep emotion inside the crevices of the heart as you remember days gone by.
And so it is, once again: a love reunited, a passion rekindled, and an ache because this relationship is not sustainable.
So I sit, ready to board, melancholy enveloping my soul. And my heart aches as I mourn this first love.
My mind slips to my husband, the man born of this continent. I wonder, “Will his heart ache next week as he heads home to his new land?”