You hear a lot of this now: transition. Transition team. Movement. In the Chicago Tribune yesterday: First Family, on the move!
I understand those words. Me, I'm in my second day of transitioning. From family, from holidays, from last year, to the next chapter. Or at least paragraph.
I said good bye to my other daughter – right there at the O’Hare terminal, from which, presumably, many are leaving to create that other transition in DC. She flew to the capital, I drove home.
I stopped only once – at Woodfield Mall (I know; such a poor way to conclude a holiday) – quickly, to pick up something. In this particular store, the soundtrack was giving forth music that I found quite lovely. A shopper, a guy, somewhat younger than me, was mouthing the words. What song is this? Who is the singer? It’s the group Keane – he tells me enthusiastically. You know, there are only two instruments there -- drums and a piano.
Along I 90, heading north, I watch the sun do its final retreat. In Illinois, the snow has almost completely melted. Now, in the early hours of dusk, the landscape is honey gold.
But, it's dark by the time I pull up to my Madison condo. Though not dark enough to conceal the ice that has taken over this city’s streets and sidewalks.
Ed and I make a pot of soup for dinner (perhaps that’s on the optimistic side; more accurately, Ed and I shop for soup ingredients and then the soup is made by one of us, the one who likes to eat fresh and honest home made soup in the winter).
It’s not late yet, not by my holiday schedule of late dinners and even later postings. Ed’s dozing because that is what he does after dinners of hot soup and bread. I download the Keane song and listen to the lyrics about “everybody’s changing…”