Leaving on a jet plane

But we will be back a month from now.  We are making a pilgrimage to the motherland, Italy.  G grew up in Rome, the city of my father.  It is a place that I have also called home for long periods.

I’m looking forward to this trip: our families, our friends, the beach, the food, the affection that will be showered on g.

I’m dreading this trip: our families, the food, the travel, the many things that I will miss while I’m away.

I have much to say but no time right now.  I will miss this space. I will miss reading the blogs whose writers I have become so terribly attached to.  I intend to pick up an old hobby while I’m away, the journal, lost art of pen and paper.

Once we arrive, I will cling desperately to this trip.  Age, with it’s burden of responsibility, has transformed the anticipation of change, the arrival of the next phase, into what is largely an exercise in fear.  The wheels have been set in motion so that many things are slated to happen after our return.  Others still are dependent on the trip itself.

Life, as they say, goes on.