A time to tell

There is a time to observe and a time to report, a time to ask questions and a time to be silent. There is a time to listen and a time to respond, a time to see and a time to tell.

Since I've been back from Africa almost everyone I've encountered has asked me how it was. I wasn't prepared to respond.

"It was African," I'd reply. Then I'd deflect, ask about their summers, let the conversation shift to lighter topics.

The few times I have started talking I've discovered the source of my exhaustion the past two weeks. There's a lot stirring inside. I don't know what to make of it.

I stayed too long. I took in too much. I lost sight of what I wanted to know before going. And now I am supposed to remember the two-months-ago version of me and answer the questions I am no longer asking. This is tricky.

I had dinner with my family the night before last. They were still waiting to hear from me. I realized how little I'd told about this place and time that have significantly changed me. I shall now attempt to do so.