Have you read Falling Behind Parts 1 & 2?

I wish the man behind me would wear headphones. He’s playing a game so loud it sounds like I’m in an arcade. The airline must be expecting that too, their announcements invade at a decibel level designed to be heard over a jack-hammer – in three languages, they go on forever. A baby in front of me starts crying and I consider joining in. Instead, I open my book and try to sink into the story. It offers to drown the tension of my surroundings.

The flight flies by. The announcements are on again. This time they penetrate into the back of my head and an ache forms. A switch flips. What I thought of as an enjoyable day – the flight was short – a final chance to relax, would soon be eight hours of travel door-to-door plus two hours of packing.

I’m exhausted and worse yet, I’m not excited to go home. I’m a step behind our schedule. I didn’t want to go to Hong Kong – we were just getting settled in China – now I don’t want to be back. After starting to unwind I’m afraid I’ll get wound up again. But maybe this will be a fresh start. Besides, it’s too late to turn back. With my head pulsing and the plane landing, home is the only place to go.

Seeing our friend and driver waiting for us at the airport brings comfort. As he drives, the sun sets. Buildings loom, their lights glimmer through rain splashed windows. We’re almost home.

*

We enter our apartment and spread out, like the octopus legs of the subway lines we’ve been navigating. I step into our room. It lures me with its offer of peace.

Brian joins and like prisoners just released we measure the perimeter with new eyes. We marvel that it is roughly the size of the room the five of us shared for the past several nights. That room was outfitted with two bunk beds, a pullout love seat, a tiny table and desk, a miniature kitchenette, and an air conditioner that could out-growl a lawnmower.

I want to curl up with my book, to relax. Instead I walk out, close the door. We need to pick up our dog. When we return I head straight for bed but get sidetracked by my kids. After the sun has sunk low I watch them finish supper and I start telling them stories. They listen. The stories get funny and soon we all spill laughter.

I’m surprised how happy I am that we’re together, how happy I am to be home, how healing a story can be.

It’s late and as kids crawl into pyjamas, I crawl into bed, a spacious bed with no bunk above, no children sleeping within arms’ reach. I open my book. Finally I can relax. And I do. Only a few paragraphs in my eyes close.

*

It’s the next morning. Something isn’t right. It’s quiet. I’ve awoken before the kids. The bark of a pack of stray dogs, the beat of scooter alarms, the blare of school announcements and the blast of the outdoor brass band that volley at our windows are surprisingly still. I sneak into our sunroom.

Instead of reading I start writing. Caught up in my own story I don’t hear the footsteps until I am forced to accept I’m not alone anymore. “Yes,” I tell myself, “It is time to face reality.” But it’s not one of the kids discovering my hiding place – it’s Brian. He’s offering me a cup of tea.

“Enjoy.”