I travel home in a complicated, but smoothly running, series of steps. Aside from the souvenir that is too much of a liquid to come along in my carry-on (perhaps someone will enjoy Kentucky lemon meringue!), it all goes off without a hitch, right down to the hugs on my return and the child's performance I feared I would miss if my plane was late. I am home.
Without question, it feels good to be with my family, in my own bed, in my own chaotic apartment. It feels good to be part of and there for. And yet, quickly upon my return, I am faced with things I should be able to fix, now that I am back, and I can't fix them. Quickly upon my return, I am reminded that being here, rather than miles away, makes me present, but doesn't always make me powerful.
There will be unpacking, and regrouping, and returning to the day-to-day life that I missed for a few days. I may not be able to solve all the things awaiting solving, but I am here, and I guess at least I can try.
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