Returning home after two months on the road is like a girl dating an old boyfriend. I know this place, but an awkward feeling exists among the familiarity. I awake in the middle of the night and as I stumble to the bathroom, I bump into the north wall. Then I realize I'm not at the Emily Morgan Hotel. My reunion requires a breaking-in period.
San Diego, Saint Louis, New York, San Antonio, Hays, and Little Rock--I loved each place I visited. Still, there were thoughts of home and reuniting with my life there. I dreamed of the day I'd reconnect with my routine. I envisioned myself, sitting in the chair, in my room, working.
I've been home a few days now and I haven't sat in that chair once. When I unpacked my suitcase, I placed some of my clothes on the cushion and slung a couple of shirts over the arms. Was I trying to hide my writing space?
I've had every opportunity to meet up with that place again. I can not use Thanksgiving or my daughter coming home as an excuse. Shannon and Jerry are late sleepers while I awake before sunrise. Those first hours before dawn invited me to pick up my pen. Instead I piddled, catching up on magazines.
But tomorrow is the Monday after Thanksgiving, the day a million diets will start, the day a few thousand smokers will quit and the day this writer clears away the clutter, sits, and finds her place again.
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