Day One - Leaving
The sun has not cracked the horizon. The children are sleeping and my alarm is buzzing. My wife lies next to me, breathing deeply. She is easy to love.
I am relaxed but excited. I’ve hardly slept, playing the weekend in my mind. I make a mental check of my luggage, my schedule. I’ve planned well, which is satisfying. I’ve been happy lately, giddy even. Worries tug at the corners of my thoughts, I let them in, and let them pass. If the worry lingers, I deal with it. I’m doing well. I deserve this.
I’m up, making coffee and showering in a quiet house. I put on new underwear and socks, an indulgence I enjoy when travelling. The airport shuttle will be here any minute and, indeed, pulls up at the same moment that I’m carrying my luggage to the driveway. I’ve timed this perfectly.
On the van, I note my passengers. In my head I make observations about them, notes, humorous asides. I picture putting these thoughts to paper. Words that make the reader laugh, initially, then tear up at sheer humanity of my story. The words are jet-black on stiff white paper that feels just so…so good between your fingers. I smile, looking at the paper and my beautiful words when they start to crumble and run into each other. The words become a mass of wet black ink, become three-dimensional and rise up to form mountains of cliches that collapse on themselves.
The van is full of realtors and they smell like there wasn’t enough time for a shower between last call and the first airport shuttle. Brooklyn is trying to get the last few miles out of last nigh’t escrow jokes. Detroit, sitting next to me, is whispering while texting Radon advice to a client. They have been in Denver for a week of sales training. I tell Detroit that I can’t believe realtors are spending the cash on a trip halfway across the country for sales training. A cold-front passes behind her eyes before she asks me how many square feet I have; tells me what she could get me in Detroit.
At the airport, I check my bag and head to security. The TSA screeners have just begun their shift - our own Queen’s Guard - and I find the one affable employee in their employ. I accidentaly brush her hand as I pass my ID and she grabs it, chuckling a line she’s been using all week, “Well, It’s nice to meet you too sir!” She shakes my hand and holds it while she checks my ID. We laugh, both enjoying the good footing on which our day is starting.
I grab a paper and head to the airport bar. If the waitress offers me a bloody mary, I’ll tell her to make it a double. Turns out, my coffee is great.
I order granola with fresh strawberries and milk. The breakfast is a departure from my norm in that no pigs were killed in its provisioning. Eggs were not scrambled and wrapped in a tortilla, smothered with cheese and drowned in green chile. No bowl of crisped and sugared neon rice awaits a tin of cream. The simple breakfast of grain and fruit that now sits before me isn’t that interesting, but it is wonderful and the colors are so bright. I don’t want to forget the taste of the strawberries against ice-cold milk and the crunch of the granola - so forgive me these few words for the sake of memory.
I pay my bill, leave my paper, and walk to the terminal. I’m off to Durango for a weekend of fishing and, hopefully, a little exploring and some photography mixed in. The skies are blue, the morning air warm, and I am happy.
