Going Home

Our plane touches down at one in the morning, and I text my best friend of 28 years, "We landed thirty minutes early. Colorado tail wind!" From memory, I tell the driver the address. Forty five minutes, if he drives quickly, and my children will be tucked under the same blankets I used when we were gangly seventh graders giggling over boys. When I cried myself to sleep after the sudden death of my sister, and hid from the home I wasn't always ready to return to. Dreaming the peaceful sleep that is possible only when you know you are safe, as the future rolled towards me with its diaphanous edges and gently lit hopes.