I flew back home alone. No children. No husband. The humming of the plane was a hymn. I wasn't squished between two hurly men. The women in front of me were reading their kindles, and the glare bounced off the anime drawings of the gentlemen sitting on the side aisle. It was the first time I flipped through a fashion magazine in years.
I laughed as the co-pilot sang Lady Gaga. He talked about teriyaki chicken, and Star Wars. He called the stewardess Yoda, and the pilot Obi One Kenobi.
I played with the window pane, adjusting, pushing, sliding the sliding pane, up and down, up and down. There was uneasiness to my gestures. My motherly instincts were not there to shush at kids, or discuss tomorrows details with my husband.
I thought about the two weeks I just experienced; my grandfather's funeral, my grandmother's pink polka-dotted pajamas, my husband swimming with his cellphone, my new niece, the bickering, the lonely desert, and the earth toned colors of the Wasatch mountain range (I've missed so much).
Sheer madness. I say this with a grin on my face.
