I touch down in Newark; I fly out of Dallas; I touch down in Baton Rouge. I fly out of Houston; I touch down in Washington; I sink slowly home to Burlington, my luggage four pounds overweight and heavy with responsibility and remorse and a child’s righteous frustration that something just isn’t fair. Wasn’t it there a week in there somewhere? A week of heat and humidity, finally warmed all the way through after months of rain and cold and forgetting what my skin is like under someone else’s hands. And the feel of sweat sheening on my hips and when I sit down little spots hotter than most, burned too much; no, perfect; no, not enough. I blinked and it faded — I blinked and I missed it.
“That’s nice,” the man at security remarks, petting the sleeve of my fur. Now it’s just that keeping me warm, sitting on my lap as I’m waiting on the tarmac flicking listlessly through my music and there’s nothing I want to hear but things I don’t have. A new soundtrack for a new summer I haven’t found yet but will. I must. It’s been a while that you and I both knew by heart every word I wasn’t going to say out loud.
“How gorgeous,” Daisy sighs as if just to me, her throaty voice stuck on repeat in my head. Seven months and one week away and I’m calmer now and I drawl a bit, I think because I’ve not yet forgotten what it’s like to have to take care with my words.
I’veee justtouuuched dowwwnn, my phone says. I’m too tired to fix it. Yes, go on, by all means, take your time now, draw things out, now that I’m in a rush to just get things over. Things. I haven’t cried yet for all the slow moments that I once wished gone, until they suddenly got so fast and vanished, but oh, it’ll come.
Well, I’m back.
