I’m on the plane; I want to write, but the app’s not working. So I’ll write a note and transfer it later.
Airplanes have a definite way of signalling the end of one thing and the beginning of another; or at least, one place, and another. And for now, while I’m not yet leaving Africa, I’m leaving the “real” Africa, and it feels like an ending. An ending with a hefty dose of melancholy.
I’m ready to go home, but I have a knot in my stomach, and tears are close at hand. I feel like there’s so much left undone, unseen, and unknown. I’ve explored a lot of places, but I’ve only just scratched the surface. I know this isn’t over yet; I’ll be back. I’ll always come back.
But that offers little consolation as I hurl myself back across the desert, wrapping up 9 months of travel into one little 4-hour flight. Makes short work out of all that effort.
A couple aisles over, I see a man fighting with himself, to keep from crying. He’s not winning the battle, but it reminds me that I’m not alone in my heartache.
Thought to make a quick call to my dad before boarding, and ended up talking for 40 minutes; somehow my $.75 credit stretched itself very thinly. We talked about how so many things are going to take time to sink in, and I won’t realize them until long after I’m home. It’s going to take a lot of adjustment. This is probably very true.