There is something sad about the last days of vacation, something that fills me with deep anxiety, that somehow I'm not ready for life, I'm not ready to go back. I want to staaaaay....It's been a week. It's time, the vacation gods murmur. The universe allowed you to leave, now it's time to go back, go home.
"But I want to staaaaay...." I sing into the wind and it drifts back into my face, but far rougher than I'd released it, and I swallow the words. "You're right," I concede, and the consonants taste like sandpaper. "It's time to go."
Work hard, the spirits whisper, do your best and you can return.
We throw things in our bags un-carefully, a counterpoint to the anticipation we'd began the week with, trying to fool the lesser sprites (the ones that keep a closer watch) that it doesn't matter. We're fine leaving. We could stay if we wanted. We just want to go home now. ReallyThe car rumbles to life, noses out of the the parking lot, and turns east toward home.
What's the first thing you do at the end of your vacation?
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Normally I drag my suitcase in as far as the living room, sometimes even to my bedroom. Then I toss myself onto my bed and stare at the ceiling and think of the wonderful vacation, and how awful it is to go back to all the work piled up. After that I think about playing lotto so I can be on a permanent vacation. If I don't fall asleep, I eventually get up start the washing machine.
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