A girl to her mother: "You don't even listen to what I say."
The sound of ESPN announcers. A hoot and holler when we landed.
The feeling of American ease, of the relaxed disinterest in judgement. Baseball caps and yoga pants and chicken wings and coffee in to-go cups and open, boisterous laughter, anger, annoyance. Nothing held back.
We are ourselves. And that's what makes us so damn lovely to come home to.
I don't know how I did it. It's been so long.
Maybe the chapter of this book is over. Page flipped, get back to a strange familiarity outside of Parisian streets and galleries and metros and planes.
I am not the same.
It was everything. A beginning and an ending and an everything. Love and tears and laughs and thoughts, musings, worries, ecstasies, wonder.
The lights of the tarmac are my stars.