I dream of my hometown. Walking through these streets again, listening to music floating from open windows like light. Harmonica, accordion. Walking these streets where I know every corner Like my own body, where I left my thoughts hanging on walls, buildings Like a pair of shoes tossed into a tree

I dream taking harmonica lessons again. Walking to the old conservatoire with my harmonica. Heavy doors of the old brown brick building push them open, the wooden floor cracks, the large windows say welcome back. Music behind closed doors accordion, harmonica The workshop in the basement where I brought my harmonica when there was something wrong with it.

I dream, I am home. Harmonica sound pouring through the window of the apartment over the flower store right by the graveyard with the old chestnut trees. Music holding me like an embrace as I walk over the cemetery. Home is never home, it’s just a memory and a sound coming to my ear dancing in the air, like dust. And I know, someday, I will play again my harmonica.