In love. No matter where I am.

A self-imposed exile. Suppose that’s one way of looking at it. My absence from America. Working on my fifth month now. I’m returning Easter weekend. In many respects, I’ve more or less ignored my native land. In favor of Italy. Living with my Italian true love. In Sardinia. Now I’ve gotta decide. Do I really miss America? Honestly, haven’t thought much about it. Haven’t dwelled on it. Maybe that’s a sign that I’ve been immersed with life on an island in the Mediterranean Sea. A good sign. That’s the way it should be. I’ll find things to like no matter where I’m living. Maybe even in hell. Though I don’t believe in such a place. I’d much rather believe in Paradise. Which I do. Think I read somewhere that hell is living with people.  I can see the point. In a humorous way. Living with Republicans. That could be hell. But I chuckle. Because I find ways to put up with Republicans. Because I’m tolerant. Especially of mentally disturbed people. Running around. On the loose.   Means I’m returning to an insane asylum. I’ll don a white coat. And pretend that I’m a doctor. One of the sane ones. Knowing that I’m crazy, too. In love. With life. No matter where I am. –Jim Broede