Moments in San Diego

October 16, 2014

cloudy sunrise

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.


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