second too late

I’m eating honey dijon kettle chips and thinking about your plane crossing the Pacific. You’ve never gone that way before and neither have I. I’m thinking about what you’ll take in as your plane edges closer to the earth—do you see the patterns, are there concentric circles and grids, do you notice the outlying areas, do you see the towers of commerce punctuating the saturated area below your feet, is the scene yellow and pink and grey, what does the lay of the land look like because as a student of geography, I am apparently keen to know.

The grogginess, the confusion, the air you’ll drink in. I’m thinking about all of that. But I’m also thinking about my tired feet and the whistling I can hear through the vents. About what I’m going to make for dinner one of these nights (something that possibly involves spinach and salmon). About how slowly I drank my tea last night and how slowly I will tonight. About how thrilled I would be if I could sleep in tomorrow. About finishing up book number six on the Rwandan genocide, so I can start reading book number seven. About golden beets and tri-colour beans and spaghetti squash in the garden. About taking one of my film toy cameras out for a stroll in the hopes of one day documenting something significant and creating positive change through photography. About how you aren’t coming home tonight. And that you won’t be home tomorrow. And the night after that, and the night after that until you will indeed be home. About how that thought makes my nose twitch in a way I can’t prevent and in a way you’ve come to recognize all too instinctively. About the 7574 kilometres and 16 hours between us. About how those numbers are largely insignificant in the face of real things.

Such as being able to sleep in the centre of a bed, but being startled awake by someone’s absence.

Run amok for me.