sǝuoſ ǝuıɥsunS

When the plane touched down at SFO I was relieved. The last part of the flight had been extremely turbulent and I was glad to be back on the ground. As the plane pulled into the gate, my telephone already pinging like a manic depressive submarine sonar reporting what would be over two hundred text messages, and a whopping seven hundred and thirty three voice messages, I realized I’d left our jackets and two of my shirts hanging in the closet of the hotel in Mexico.

I remembered leaving my son’s priceless “yellow b” at the very same hotel a couple of years ago, and despite serious effort, never retrieving it. Hopeless, I called the concierge and asked them to please check it out. They said they would do their best and to call back in ten minutes for more information.

I decided that jackets come and go, shirts are only cloth, and I left more in Mexico than some things that don’t matter. I left my stress, all my cares, a trunk full of hope and expectations, I uncrossed my fingers and dove into the sea, returning to shore considerably lighter, if not a great deal more quiet. I may never get used to this stillness, but it appears to be my destiny. It appears, at least, to be the path I am on today whether I like it, tasting the ground with joy, rolling in the leaves of late winter’s end, or not.

Ten minutes later they had located our things, and were going to deliver them to my brother’s room (because he was still there) and perhaps I might be able to collect them from him someday? Yes, perhaps I might.