I’m looking at photos of my students from the Christmas
program and it feels like another lifetime ago.
The more I stay in this frigid artic, the less I want to
leave. I’ve become as entrenched in this environment as the ice clinging to the
ground. I don’t want to be uprooted again, I don’t want to be gone for so long.
Six whole months. What if I become homesick?
Well, then I become homesick. And I move on.
Well, then I become homesick. And I move on.
Mom says I’m different. She says I’m calmer, that I don’t
fly off the handle so much. And something else—she says I’m happier.
I ask her what she means—I want examples, specific instances
to identify—but she can’t explain it any further.
I came with a checklist of items I wanted to bring back to
Honduras. Shampoo, quinoa, socks, nail polish, shavers, a hair dryer—all have
been filling up my suitcase until I realize this morning that I have less than ten
pounds to spare.
I have a different sort of checklist now, a list of
experiences I want to devour and savor before I’m whisked away. I want to see Les Miserables in theatres several
times. Go ice skating at Rosa Parks Circle. Read a book. Lesson plan. Chase my
dogs around at the park. Catch the eye of a cute boy. Drink wine with friends.
And so much more.
I said before and mean it still—I didn’t leave Michigan to
run away. And I didn’t leave Honduras wishing never to return. But
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And that's where it ends. I don't know what was supposed to explain the "but"-- how I would have connected these thoughts in my mind. It wasn't something I planned to share. But... why not?
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