Maybe it's because I've been ill for the last week, but for the first time on this trip I've begun to miss things. The top culprit this week has been my bed back home; spending just an hour in its downy embrace has been a recurring, fever induced dream, of a week spent coughing, wheezing, aching, tossing and turning, and shivering, in the most unwelcoming, uncomfortable, sorry excuse of a bed possible.
A close second (as a big fan of our bed also, I'm sure she'll understand second billing), is my wife. We talk most days on Skype, so I know I don't miss talking to her. I miss her touch, her skin against mine. I miss that primal human need to be touched, to feel the affection contained in the simple act of someone grasping your hand. I miss my wife. It's really the little things I miss: riding my bike, the warmth of Spring, a nice cup of British tea, blending into the crowd, the things we often don't even realize.
Oh well, I can feel my sickness slowly begin to ebb away; I can feel the warmth of Spring begin to slowly raise it's head here in the frigid north of China, and I can hear time slowly tick away as I realize there is so much more I still have yet to experience before I go home.
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