Going home

We’re going home now.

We’ve eaten the meal, we raved over the flavors, took one last bite even though we were already full and leaned back in our chairs, satisfied. We are lethargic with satisfaction, and easing ourselves onto the highway into a kind of dream like state, where the scenery shifts like moods, not geographies.

At the border, there is a long wait. We fidget, pull out books, snacks, songs-but-not-albums, ready to tell them we’re only staying for a night, a deep night in some undetermined location, a cheap hotel which is not a stop, but a dream (not even, perhaps a reverie only). We learned the lesson from the last border crossing. Answer: vacation, not “working”-vacation. No room for accuracy and hyphenated answers. Keep it straight.

Home still seems very far away. There is no urgency in this return other than a need to see my family. My grandpa is in the hospital and those half-answers over the phone keep me far removed from understanding his condition. I think about playing guitar to him while he lies in his hospital bed.

It is a beautiful journey. Peaceful. We’re bringing home a car full of treasures after all—stories enough to last the winter, I’ll think.