Coming not-home
Bleak, sunless morning. Nothing about the gray feels like morning but I've been watching the night sky lighten since 4:30. My body is similarly ambiguous, physically here but loyally minding Kyoto time. I've flown "back" -- but not back home, as my travels tend to conclude. That difference weighs on me today, as jetlag muddles what should be a sense of adventure. I look outside and imagine the unpleasant texture of the sky as a taut, sticky sheet of rice paper. If I could prick holes in it, tongues of sunlight would surely lick through and dissolve the paper with enthusiastic saliva.
I am the opposite of enthusiastic. By some miracle sunshine brightens the windows in the early afternoon. At 3:25 we finally emerge outside, my fingers laced through mom's, our elbows bent into Ls as we squeeze our arms together for warmth and stability, her post-surgery wooziness and my exhaustion tottering us carefully and successfully around the block.
Later, I pick my dog Vladimir up from puppy camp and he's very happy to see me though he's in no rush to leave. He must know we're going somewhere familiar and comforting and also not-home. An accidental nap and a second wind later, it's 1 am and I listen to the gentle sounds of his breathing. He fell asleep around midnight. I saw in his body language, like mine, hesitation to trade the wariness of limbo for the trusting cushion of slumber.
I am the opposite of enthusiastic. By some miracle sunshine brightens the windows in the early afternoon. At 3:25 we finally emerge outside, my fingers laced through mom's, our elbows bent into Ls as we squeeze our arms together for warmth and stability, her post-surgery wooziness and my exhaustion tottering us carefully and successfully around the block.
Later, I pick my dog Vladimir up from puppy camp and he's very happy to see me though he's in no rush to leave. He must know we're going somewhere familiar and comforting and also not-home. An accidental nap and a second wind later, it's 1 am and I listen to the gentle sounds of his breathing. He fell asleep around midnight. I saw in his body language, like mine, hesitation to trade the wariness of limbo for the trusting cushion of slumber.
