Same Same, but Different

Trees. Voices. Clouds. Packaging. Birds. Conversational Hum.

Very much the same, but subtly different as you change latitude, hemispheres, nations, regions.

In the photos, the Missouri ski looks so lofty, the Japanese trees grow differently in a way I can barely name. And seagulls still make my heart leap. And I swear the snow feels different here.

I wonder whether there's a nearly perfect match, stereotype by stereotype, subtlety by subtlety, to let me understand like a native various accents and tones, or if that final room, that Sancta Sanctorum, is reserved for those who absorb the language silently through tiny ears like soft seashells.

And then I miss my own childhood... the metallic taste of Hawaiian punch straight out of the can, the hot-wet-blanket heat of a Missouri summer, the heavy sound of the cicadas in the trees, the long lazy nights under stars and mosquito candles, the taste of the muddy river, the pathetic pinch of a crawdad, grey sweatshirts that smelled like smoke and ear-bands that always made my head itch.