In Search of Home(s)
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Home is where the mosquitoes are

It became their obvious intention to kiss the ceiling. They kissed it. -Kurt Vonnegut

The ceiling and I were treated to the slapping version of Vonnegut’s quote.

What motivates one to stand on furniture and reverse worship the walls?

The usual culprit: Mosquitoes.

The ceiling is low enough to see clouds of cigarette smoke float in the glow of the single light. The smoky journey is interrupted by the mosquitoes in the path of the same light and two minutes later, someone ends up standing on the couch.

There is a jump, then another, then fits of laughter, then a smack against the white walls. A miss leaves a dirty handprint that will quietly nag me for the next three weeks (until I secretly climb a ladder sponge in hand and erase its existence). Gazes pinned to the ceiling, palms ready. It is raining mosquitoes. Meanwhile, an upstairs neighbor is left wondering what gives rise to the unorthodox sounds beneath the floorboards.

It is an itchy Saturday night in October in Beer Shevah, Israel. Without the mosquitoes, it would not be home.

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