Currently, I am resting anxiously on a pivot point, at home in Atlanta, awake late, thinking not sleeping. I am not home relaxing, resting easy. Time will not afford it. My 36 hours here feel like a mere layover between the last celebrations of college graduation and a summer already beginning. There is time enough to unpack, do laundry, have a home-cooked meal, help dad tune up the Marshmallow (that is my big, white car, which bounces along with such cushioned suspension that one might mistakenly think themselves to be riding inside…a marshmallow), repack, and depart. There isn’t time for much else.
If I had had a week to spend down south, I would have stopped in Phenix City, Alabama earlier today to play 9 holes of golf with my grandfather, Daddy Jack. I would also consider stopping by my brother’s work to say hello. My brother, however, works downtown for the Atlanta Police Department, patrolling one of the roughest districts in the city…on the graveyard shift, I might add. It’s not quite like stopping by the ice cream parlour. Yet I have had to settle for a conversation with my grandfather on the phone (he was planting his tomatoes!) and my brother over to the house for dinner (which admittedly is far more sensible and less dangerous). Even with such southern comforts, I’ll be headed north before I can brace myself.
I will try to brace myself.