Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Sour Milk, and more

What the fuck. I come home last night with the boy, flight delayed. Settle in after ten hours of traveling home in the hopes of getting to sleep early - only to turn around and drive back into the city for work - so, I wake up and make my normal half pot of coffee. Both the milk and half-and-half I bought before leaving have gone bad. A total mystery. Ten dollars of spoiled milkstuff. The dates don't indicate that they should have gone off. So, I start searching the refrigerator for signs that the power went off and stayed off for a while. No evidence. None, other than the rotten milk, that is. Now I must run to the gas station, then to Starbucks, then back into the city. The unexpected indignity of the sour milk was almost too much for me. I could feel the mistrust of travel, of being away, creep into me. Nothing should have rotted while I was away.

The reluctance of age, I guess, resentment towards any change not directly caused by me, no matter how natural. 

Well, who knows, maybe my day will improve by departing from home, the one place that I so wanted to return to last night. People who have a strong sense of home, I think, often take it for granted. It's one of the easiest things to do with the concept, pretend it doesn't matter.

Nope, I wrote that before I left the house. On the 101 South heading into the city early this morning I came upon an horrific car accident. The driver's car was upside down and what was left of them was strewn half-in and half-out of the car. The lifeless arm stretched away from the driver's side door, lying flat and still in the rain, palm upwards, the pale flesh of the forearm a shocking reminder. No one was near it, everyone was just standing off and waiting for the cops and medics. The important but useless three digit calls having already been made.

Rachel reminded me that I am tired from traveling, that my emotional response to such a thing might be exaggerated, and she was right. It was too much for me. I want to go home and take a day long nap in my own bed. I want to hide until something has passed.

The trip to Denver was a great success for the boy and I, but I am not used to being a conduit for every need - physical, emotional, or otherwise - that the boy has. It is exhausting to be a parent, at times. Last night we arrived home late, after the boy's normal bed time. Mom had hidden eggs of all sorts everywhere for the boy to have a late night Easter egg hunt. I stood and smiled for as long as my body would let me. My own bed was calling from far, far away, only a few hundred feet further in a day's traveling, one that ended a week's traveling.

I can not stop seeing that arm lying in the wet pre-dawn mud. The headlights from the car behind it, a bad spotlight on a terrible scene. It all must have happened so fast, so unbelievably fast. Sooner or later it's too late for everything.