My last morning in Arizona began the same as many others. I woke up early to beat the heat of the day. I went for a run with my dad, this time taking extra note to the beauty of the scenery: The red earth; the tall, desert cacti; the clear, blue sky without a cloud in sight. We finished our run at Starbucks, where we ordered lattes. When we returned to the house, we ate breakfast with Bev and Gus. I soaked in my last few moments with my family, studying their features and listening to their laughter.
The time to leave came far too quickly. We hugged our loved ones goodbye, promising to visit again soon. Hopefully, there will not be another decade between now and our next visit. Jake, Mom, Dad, and I piled our luggage into the van and then climbed inside. We waved one last time to Bev and Gus, who were standing in the doorway of their home, and then we began the hour-long drive to the airport.
It was a quiet, somber trip. None of us were quite ready to leave. We had enjoyed the time spent with family in Arizona; we all wanted just one more day to fully appreciate how precious that time had been.
When we arrived at the airport, we returned our rental car and then took the shuttle to our terminal. We were running late, and I was getting nervous. I kept checking my watch as the minutes dwindled down. However, the airport was nearly empty once again. We made it through baggage claim and security in record time. There were even a few minutes to spare for a quick snack before we boarded our plane.
Today’s flight home was easier than the trip to Arizona had been. Instead of two flights with an unnecessarily long layover in between, we had one four-and-a-half-hour flight straight back to our destination. Instead of sleeping on this flight, I decided to finish my book, Brain on Fire: My Month of Madness by Susannah Cahalan. The book kept me at rapt attention, turning pages feverishly throughout, until I finally reached the last, eloquently written paragraph.
While reading, I was treated to the cacophony of, not just one, but two crying babies. When one stopped, the other picked up her shift. On rare occasion, we were treated to a lovely duet. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the parents as my fellow passengers grew restless in their seats. Luckily, it seemed that most people on the airplane had come prepared with headphones and earplugs, so there were no voiced complaints.
I had nearly reached the end of my book when the plane began to descend. I looked up from the words to glance out the airplane window at the perfect moment. Rippling water basking in the sunlight wound through tall, green trees that covered the land. Upon the water, a lonely boat cut through the waves in the direction of a distant bridge. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the sight. It was as if, in just a week of being away, I had forgotten how much I loved the trees and adored the greenery that surrounded me at home. I had forgotten the summer days I am accustomed to, lying on a boat or on the shore of a beach with the hot sand between my toes, soaking up the sunshine.
“Look at all that humidity,” the passenger behind me grunted.
Oh, yes, I can’t forget the humidity, too. We are back in Maryland, the state of muggy summers; brilliant thunderstorms; tasty blue crabs served with Old Bay; and bright, black-eyed Susans. We are back in the state where I grew up, where I feel a familiar sense of comfort no matter where I have been or how long I have been gone. We are home.