I am back for what I hope is a long run. Yesterday, all of a sudden, I realized I felt better when I made it to the kitchen without stopping to cough and catch my breath. I am not completely cured as I am still coughing but I can breathe. It has been just about one month.

My house is a dust bowl. My car is a trash truck. The trunk is filled with bags and two more need to be loaded. I know. I know, but I can’t help it. The dump will be closed the next two days, and I have just about a month’s worth of trash in the car. I have no choice.

The day is ugly. The clouds are getting darker. Rain and snow are predicted. Of course they are on my first day back in the world.

The dogs are asleep the couch. Actually, I think they are pretending to sleep. They are tired of listening to me. They had even stopped noticing when I coughed.

When I was a kid, my world was filled with wonder. It was huge. My bike took me everywhere. I collected errant golf balls across the street from the course. I watched the train. I went to the zoo. I window shopped. I stopped at the library. I ate my lunch on a bench by the town hall, my bologna sandwich. The bread was white and soft. The mustard was yellow. The cookies were Oreos.

When I traveled in Ghana, I never packed any food. I could buy it along the sides of the road as I passed through even small villages. I bought oranges, peeled at the top with razor blades, bananas, mangoes, yam chips cooked over charcoal in large white porcelain bowls, fresh bread, plantain and Guinea fowl served in banana leaves. I’d find a place to sit where I could watch the world. I have always been fascinated by Ghana.