I love flying. I love airplanes. I love the simultanious order and chaos of airports.
This is my 12th flight this year and for some reason this time I was N.E.R.V.O.U.S. I thought perhaps that I was nervous because, oh, say, the plane was going to go down in flames-- turns out I was mostly just nervous about having to wear the same underwear for a week and a half.
My luggage has never gotten lost before so I didn't know what when your luggage doesn't show up the best explaination they will be able to give you for the following 13 hours is: "we're sure it's on one of the planes," and "we really have no idea where it is; it never showed up."
neat.
My underwear (and everything else) did arrive finally but I think between that and my five hour layover in Minnapolis I'm not going to mess with Northwestern again.
Being home is nice. I wasn't sure what I would do. Every trip has a purpose. We say: "I'm going home for the Holiday," or, "I'm going home for a funeral." It was both this time and it's sort of hard to reconcile the two.
You couldn't have picked a clearer, brighter, more beautiful day to say goodbye to my grandfather. It's true, I see, that he knew most everyone in this town and was loved by all of them. The hardest part is just the space that is no longer filled. This enormous gap where a lot of laughter used to be. Grandma is still funny and brite, but this house is a half-house. Just not whole. Just too quiet: not enough country western.
Anyway I'm tired of saying goodbyes so if you're planning on passing away, forget it. It's time for showing up and not for leaving.
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