Sometimes I want to tell you about the small things. How I rise in the morning and do yoga on a towel on the floor of my hotel room. The white terrycloth leaves little wrinkles on my palms.
How I drive east, into the sunrise, and how the sky goes from gray clouds to a wash of gold and cream. How I feel far from home, but still grateful. Palm trees and blue skies and all that.
How the office bathroom has a rattling fan and three paintings of Siamese cats. Their blue eyes stare down at me as I pee. I wonder who put them there, and wonder why they stayed.
How the airport terminal is a small circle, and how I walk around and around until I get dizzy and stop to eat. The hamburger is charred and the fries are greasy. I perch on a stool at a table with strangers. They click around on their computers, drink glasses of white wine.
How sometimes in a crowd I can pick out my people – the ones who will inevitably sit next to me. The blond mother and daughter who look like sisters. The couple in leather and plaid, carrying a hanging lamp shaped like a star.
How when I emerge from the airport into the cool air of home, I stand out on the airport sidewalk and wait for my ride. From here, everything is just headlights on my face. From here, every car looks the same.