Touchdown

In my peevish pubescence, I squirmed inwardly and excused myself quickly, dodging the barrage of parental questions. “How are you?” “Who was there?” “What did you do?” “Did you have a good time?” “Did they feed you?” Returning from any occasion that took me away, homecoming was overwhelming. My folks were well-intentioned, and it was to my benefit that that they took interest in my comings and goings, but it seemed every query was an arrow aimed at my glistening personal experience. Floating along in my own hormonal world, there was no telling what might pop out if I opened up.

Just ahead of her final college semester, my older child enjoyed the privilege of a two-week, January-term trip to Belize. She and a dozen other collegians engaged in the local community, with several hours a day spent tutoring resident school children. Generally perspicacious and articulate, she came back tongue-tied, leaning on uninspiring descriptors like amazing and incredible. “Life changing.” I suggested. “Yes!” she exhaled, dreamily. And that was that, for at least a few more hours.

On a recent, sunny Saturday, I saw my friend, Sue. She had just rolled back into town after a six-week, cross country journey in her Prius hatchback. Before she set off, she’d shown me her car, stuffed to the gills with traveling essentials, including a full-length slot in back for her to sleep. She’s no leviathan, but it was an impressive addition nonetheless. I was eager to learn about her adventures. Without really considering, I asked, “How was it?”

For a split second, she looked as if I’d inquired as to which earlobe she might prefer to remove, given the choice. Then, her face softening, she summoned a response. “It was…” with a pause and a sigh before she finished. “…great.”

I’ve just traveled roughly 10,000 air miles to the other side of the world and back, for a nuclear-family reunion in Australia spawned by my daring, darling younger daughter, who moved there in February. I am hungry at odd hours. My posture wilts mid-email as I struggle against an ill-timed urge to sleep. Everything smells like someone else’s laundry soap: the clean and the dirty clothes, the magazines I took but didn’t read, the rumpled boarding passes. Reviewing pictures of delightful friends, remarkable places, and my perfectly imperfect family, I am enchanted one moment, wistful the next. Eventually, the stories will come. Or they won’t. Does anyone really want to know about the yogurt-smeared doorway, the unforeseen love affair with coffee, the visit with Dr. Victor Wei, the flying passion fruit, or the very-small-worldness of it all?

For a little while, time didn’t matter. I experienced a kind of suspended animation in a place where colors announce themselves like signal flags, where the afternoon sun blasts in unapologetically with a ginger beer and a good story, where the nos have extra vowels. Now, I’m watching the scenes play on repeat against the delicate, iridescent surface of my bubble. I’m home, and I’ve touched down, but my heart is returning on its own time, turning softly in a shimmering sphere of wonder.

~Elizabeth