The night before your 9am flight, you stay up texting until midnight, but don’t cross into the hinterland, as your horoscope predicted. You are again unsure of yourself. You are always unsure of yourself.
Opening old boxes, at “home” home and at home, has infected me in ways I did not anticipate. I’m way deep in nostalgia and don’t see the way out. Old friends. Old writing. Old journals. Mom’s meatballs. Now I’m listening to the football game on the radio. My sister’s buying a house. Old traditions gone, new traditions about to start. I have a low-grade ache, and I’m not sure what to do about it. All the things, the Mississippi Mud Bars and shoestring potatoes, I’ll never have again, and the ages it will take to explain to someone new just what it was like and how sad it is that it’s all gone. We stacked blocks together in the family room just so she could knock them down. Her bachelorette party is in six weeks. I can’t even keep track of all of the memories. Too many, all at once.