I took a break. I went away for a long weekend. I went to Arkansas where I connected with a bunch of writers from (in)courage. It was a good, deep breath of fresh air. I needed a break. I think I’ve probably been running on empty a lot these days.
I am home, now.
The plane touched down at the airport, and I sent a text to say we’d landed. Then, I gathered up my things, hoisting my carry-on over my shoulder and making my way up the jetway and into the terminal. My husband always picks me up curbside, after I’ve claimed my suitcase from the baggage carousel.
I walked the ramp from the terminal toward the escalator, smiling at the people who were waiting expectantly for children and parents and friends and lovers to come home.
I almost missed him, because I wasn’t expecting him. I thought he’d be waiting for my next text—the one that says I’ve claimed my bag and I’ll be waiting just outside, through the revolving door. But he stepped into my path unannounced, just the way he’d done at the beginning, nearly three decades before.
When I travel, the hardest part is leaving home. Once I get where I’m going, I’m fine—completely immersed in the moment, in fact. I rarely call home when I’m away. But the return to the mess on my own kitchen cabinets and the light shining on dust in the living room and the bed where I drift to sleep with my leg draped over his is always the very best part of every single trip.
Tell me a travel story of your own. What is the very best part of it for you?