Every year, when Christmas shows up, my heart melts and I feel something wet in my eyes.
There is so many small things to remember about the British Christmas. I miss the mince pies, I miss her and her blinking earrings, I miss them and the hundreds Xmas markets we walked through.
I wish I were on the other side of the Channel where I left so much of myself ; it feels so strange, like if I were never able to take it back, like if it should always stay the Promise and inaccessible land for me.
There is some place your belong to, where you feel well even you don't know why.
I wish I could see Kensington Garden frozen and snow-white, smoke a cigarette outside laughing after having drunk too much on the pub, not caring about the cold and copping with the Irish accent.
I wished it were all different.