i was several versions not-myself this week en route from here to there.
i was dory among the jellyfish when our neighbor-plane dove with us into the cloud bank. we emerged alone and the sky seemed greyer.
i was a stranger on another plane, sliding gum like a cigarette from its carton when offered across the aisle by the tracksuit in 4C.
i was an expert and a salesman, a business traveler and a long-distance wife.
i was not unhappy. i was not unloved. i was not alone.
indeed, i laughed hard and often – at this place, at these people, at myself sleeping in my zebra-print retainer. i had to stretch for the constant crunch of it on my stomach and soul.
but i was not mywholeself.
only now can i question, as i stretch back to thatself in the sweet valley of mere hours at home:
what pieces of these travels will i carry on from here . . . these trips not for pure escape but for the push of work and team? what souvenir stamps will they mark on my passport?
tomorrow will tell. march is for travelers.