islands

all of the sudden it happened.

instead of ticking off the checkboxes or smoothing down the folded shirts over and over: zipping up.
instead of pairing socks and washing towels: tucking tissue into jam jars.
instead of squeezing hands tightly and trying to feel as much dog fur as possible: small bells going off and glass sealing.
instead of planning: going.

and here i am. on the far coast. in the smallest state. not truly a physical island, but certainly an island of a different kind. this one has only the smallest family and company that was smuggled between t-shirts and bed linens. (small shrines, some red yard tied to me, a bell with a wooden clapper.)

to sit with a lapful of lists whose items have been struck through is a kind of built in hovering mechanism. these last few hours i have floated instead of traveled and watched the world through suspended water. part of it is a coastal fog, forecasted in advance, and dimming out the aerial heights of the city. the other part is the phantom limb feeling of building a vessel of plans to ferry myself into another life and not knowing what to do once i've broken it down into manageable parcels and disembarked.

i slept through the sunrise and woke up over the course of two cities. home like spider silk is still billowing around me and when it yanks i don't know which way to orient myself in order to get a sight of it. but tomorrow the Proper journey will begin. there will be paper packets of scones and soft butter and mugs of coffee too hot and too full and certainly spilled on the car seats. there will be canvas bags and plastic cartons and we will leap empty handed into the void. we will leave one island and arrive on another and nothing will be the same again.