Like a veil slowly being pulled away from my face, consciousness starts to come in as the light in the room fills the void from the chasm--on one side there is asleep, on the other awake. And before I know it, my eyelids still shut, I know that I'm awake and today is a new day. Try as I may to just remain in bed and stay in the moment, I'll eventually accept the fact that it's over, and just kicking it in bed is only detracting from the time left.
But I want to remember this moment, how I feel right now. I want that lasting image, so I stay in bed with the covers on me and the oscillating fan on the low setting, with the shades allowing only cracks of light through the two windows ahead of me and off to the right. There's perfect silence and it's gorgeous. No alarms, no babbling down the hall, no TV at all. Waking up naturally is a gift, and even though I've never been a morning person and I'm still a bit crabby after waking up on my own volition, I'm grateful for not being woken up with a jolt.
Finally, after a minute or two of floating on the bed, I vote in favor of getting up. I have to pee and there's only one thing you can do in that situation. But the bed is so firm, so comfortable, and after spending so many months on a saggy bed that creaked nearly every time I breathed deeply, I appreciate the calm of this one all the more. I don't know what my bed will be like tomorrow, but right now, in this moment, this is the best bed ever. Period.
Down the hall to the bathroom the silence continues, broken only by the sound of liquid hitting liquid, but that's alright. It's better than a honking horn. And then suddenly, like the sunrise hitting different parts of the trees and running the shadows out of town, noises start to present themselves. A voice downstairs, the distant sound of some music being played through lousy speakers, a coffee machine. These are the sounds of a home-- one which will soon be minus one person. I have all morning and afternoon to idle around before heading to the airport with my parents, so I take my time.
A small breakfast, a quick run, and a luke-warm shower. Like with the bed I want to remember this shower, and I extend it just a minute or two, because I have no idea what the next shower will be like. How much grime will be in the tub, or how bad the pressure will be. It's a random guess, but in this sweet little shower in this house I grew up in, I'm enjoying one last solid rain storm. Keeping in mind how much water would be selfishly wasted in order to reminisce, I get out and dress. A small lunch is all I need because I'm having a way too early dinner around 3 or 4 o'clock, one last time for mom's fajitas that I love so much. Then off to the airport.
Still here though, with just a couple hours left to spare. It drags, the sky gets darker, and a thunderstorm is on the horizon. I wonder if this will screw up my flights, but I've previously learned how to just take it all as it comes. If it rains it rains. And if the plane is late or doesn't arrive at all, at least I had my last comfortable sleep, decent shower, and favorite dish at home. One way or another I'll get to where I'm going, but I'm not even here anymore. So many people, myself included, have been down this road before. I'm used to this. Yet it's always something new. Something different to look for. I'm alone now. I'm on the road now.