11.27.15 | Hallowell, Maine
The bell went off. Toast is ready. All seems so peaceful. There is the hope of a child in the future, a baby. So close to our lives, part of it, really. Yet I want. Long. I am in the process of realizing and accepting that
the longing will never subside
and I must fill it with what I can for the moment, and nurse it until the final gift is given me — when I am at last allowed to open it.
Reading the above note reminded me of other gifts, and in so doing, I searched for ‘gifts‘ in my manuscripts. Even though the excerpt below is not about gifts, the overall tone is the same. I think. My trip to Japan, many moons ago, was a faraway and dreamy type of experience. I felt submerged … like I didn’t belong. In the end, it became a gift. Still is. Funny how some experiences remain, almost as if they are a scent or a music note.
They can be right here when allowed.
I arrive at the airport with barely enough time to check-in and run to the gate, but the plane is just boarding so I get into traveling mode — have been so out of touch. I buy gifts for the boys and Em and Elaine, stationery and pens and letter openers, a kimono, and an umbrella.
At last, I am on the plane. There’s wind-driven rain and lightning — the first big thing I’ve seen in Japan. I want to call it and say, in a whisper, a-güa-ce-ro, but the lady next to me may think I’m crazy, and this is going to be a long flight. Words pertaining to water in Spanish move me: agüacero, downpour; diluvio, deluge; and llovizna, drizzle; all appropriate for how I feel. Raindrops fall on the pane, as if against my face, like tears that do not touch the skin or soul, with that cold and hollowing sensation one gets after a good cry, yet without the anguish or physical exhaustion. I’ve accomplished that already.
The steward just picked up our trays and I can go to sleep, hungry and empty yet filled with a sense of belonging in this world.
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