In the mornings, Samoa smells faintly smoky. Closer than the birds is the sound of salus, as the women sweep the leaves and squashed insects from the paths. At the hotel, there is also the clinking of cutlery, as the waiters get ready for breakfast. The air is thick, and the inevitable heat makes the relative cool heavy with expectation.
I've spent so many years feeling like I don't really belong anywhere; that I'm between places, a bit like my father, and that belonging will come to my children, or theirs. For the first time, I feel like maybe I belong in both places, and both less and more because of it. I've finally been able to see and hear what's inside me, independent of what other people see and hear, and what their relationships to either place are, and it's this.