“I’m writing a book. I’ve got the page numbers done.” Steven Wright
And I’ve got the book covers all picked out! What was I thinking when I scheduled the trip to Jamaica for the day after graduation? Something allowed me to believe I would miraculously have the attention to complete the nine remaining pages of editing on the collection of my Father’s letters to my Mother once both feet were again firmly planted in the land of our birth.
Sure, I knew my husband would be anxious and that my aunt might be further along in her decline. I even reminded myself of the feelings that arise each time I return and must sit behind bars in the middle class prison of my childhood home. I was prepared to sleep through the transition, no matter how many days it might take to get my sealegs and island wits about me once again, but the abject indifference that met me when I was rested enough I couldn’t have anticipated.
There were details to address. Wills to be checked. Statements to reconcile. People to see. All I wanted was to go home, but where was that to be located now that all those associated with it were dead or dying? Just before the tears started to slip down through the slits of my waking eyes, I had a fleeting sense of promise: I could start all over again and choose where and with whom home would be. Then reality set in.