I am on the Interstate. Alone.
(no, that's not me; I'm the one with camera, remember?)
No one to take charge of the camera in the back seat. Just me. And loosely packed bags thrown about. With dirty laundry.
I search the airwaves for the appropriate song. Maybe the one about going home? To the place where you belong? So, do I belong here, back in the condo?
Sure, yes, but I would like, for once, to come home and not find that in my absence, the furnace has taken a vacation. So that the place has a lovely chill – fitting with the mood of a person leaving behind two weeks of daughters and their hilarity and facing a brief period of intense work and neglected chores.
Coming home. There is no heat, but contacted persons are awfully nice about it. Niceness counts. Home. Home, home. Facing the bright side now: home. With sunlight streaming in, so that the absence of a working furnace is barely noticable. (Until the sun sets.)
By the way, did you ever notice how difficult transitions can be? You have? Really? You too?