Being a refugee

This is kind of an addendum to Anne’s post Hers is better, of course.

This summer we were moved to a new country. Its hard to put an exact time or date on it. Let’s say it was the evening Anne had really bad indigestion and we didn’t have any Rennies, so secretly I cycled up to Sainsbury’s and was back in 20 minutes to surprise her. We laughed. It was funny. But that’s when we were moved, without realising it.

We looked around for some weeks, without appreciating what had happened. You peer through the mist and think you recognise familiar landmarks. Familiar features. Probably its just a short walk home. Or worst case a short bus ride. Nothing too bothersome. Nothing dramatic. This is just a visit, and we’ll be home by Christmas.

But no. It turns out we’ve changed country, and there is no way back. We’re refugees here. Trying to make the best of it, trying to make something work out. There are lots of people happy to help, and they’ve sorted us out with stuff, and that’s great. It turns out there are a couple of old friends also here, who have already settled in.

We’re beginning to find our way round, though there are only a few road signs so its easy to get lost. The weather is very changeable; you’re out in the sun and feeling good and suddenly the rain starts and its cold and miserable. It can be very cold. I’ve not found a weather forecasting app.

Sometimes we wander down to the beach and look out at the ocean. Somewhere over there is the old country, where life was very different. Its hard not to think about that life, and wonder. But its not really helpful. Its best to wander back up the beach, wander back into the new country, wander back to our new life as refugees. We’re going to make this work.

(I probably talk in cliches, and just murdered a perfectly good metaphor. But this will have to do.)