My family is defined by distance and by the reunions we have to overcome them. The past few days were no exception.
We come from all over, little by little. We eat and drink. We stay up too late and tell stories from the past. We heckle each other about our hairlines and waistlines. We catch everyone up on our lives and get caught up on everyone else’s.
We plan a memorial service, gathering pictures and information from my Grandfather’s life.
At the service, we tell our stories as best we can. Laughter and tears. Jimmy sings a song.
And, when it’s time, we take our leave — proud of our family and feeling fortunate to be a part of it.
The longest part of the trip was, of course, coming home.
I need to get home. My love is waiting for me and I want nothing more than to crawl into her arms and sigh and sleep. I have been looking forward to it all weekend.
The plane is mercifully empty. I read the book I picked up in the airport shop, pleased to find that I am enjoying it more than I expected.
After we get our peanuts and drinks, I make my way to the back of the plane and wait for the lavatory to open up. One of the flight attendants is rummaging in the galley.
We chat briefly while I wait. She tells me she’s new, that this is her third flight. She asks how she’s doing.
She’s doing fine and I tell her so.
She takes my hand in hers and raises it to study my engagement and wedding rings.
“Those probably aren’t decorative, are they?â€
They most certainly aren’t and I tell her so.
Her disappointment and lack of shyness about saying so surprises and embarrasses me.
A bell chimes. She gives me a wry smile and heads up the aisle.
I go into the lavatory and lock the door. The face in the mirror is a tired blur. I don’t see what she saw. And I’m more than fine with that.
In the darkened plane, I finish rewriting my story. Paging back through it, I am more or less satisfied with how it turned out. It’s a good story and it works. That’s all I expect these days. I close my computer and open my book.
Later, while we’re taxing to the terminal, the flight attendant announces that the other two attendants were married last night in Las Vegas. People clap and cheer for them and I say “Ah, of course…†to myself.
It must be a lonely life.
I arrive long after midnight. Chicago is a network of road closings, detours, and I spend over two hours trying to get out of it. There’s no rhyme or reason to any of it. Every time I follow the signs, I end up caught in a Möbius loop of interchanges and closed off ramps. Every time I follow my directions, I end up lost in increasingly worse parts of town. Every time I follow my instincts, I end up looping back where I started from.
I start to wonder if I have somehow died and landed in a Hell of one sort or another.
I call my wife, reassured to hear her sleepy voice. I tell her I’m lost and late. She tells me to come home — the best instructions I’ve received all night.
After I hang up, I wonder if maybe she’s all part of this Rod Serling nightmare too.
Finally, mercifully, I find the right combination of turns and detours that gets me onto the toll road heading into Indiana and Michigan beyond.
The drive back is uneventful and I struggle to stay focused. My mind drifts and the quicksand consciousness starts to slide out from under my feet once or twice.
Eventually, just before dawn, I arrive home. The cats are at the door to greet me. My wife has left a teacup on the counter, the paper tag hanging over the side.
I am tired enough to stand and think about it for a few minutes, composing a poem for Billy Collins in my head before I shake myself. I go upstairs to crash into our bed and her arms.
When I wake, the poem and, inexplicably, my voice are gone.
But she is there. And I am home.