There’s something about journeying to and fro our countryhome that tugs Mezie’s emotions. Something that envelopes, transforms him to an incomprehensible youth. He would point at rocks or marketplaces we passed or remind me to pronounce conifers, masquerade trees of which I already know, telling of how you could smell history, rich history from the places we passed.
My historian friend never heeds sleep’s call.
‘Why sleep?’ He would reply whenever I asked him to. ‘When there’s so much to see.’
I’m storing information now. Mezie is stretched in the box. Maybe he can smell history all the same.